


burn low (you’re only mine)

by goldenlinks



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Arya is the best, Falling In Love, Incest, M/M, R Plus L Does Not Equal J, forgive me for i have sinned ... again, lots of main characters, sansa/margaery is minor, they are brothers im so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-11-12 08:24:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18007319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenlinks/pseuds/goldenlinks
Summary: Robb clears his throat and Jon turns to look at him, their eyes catching one another in a steely gaze that Jon doesn't understand. Robb's lips are gentle, soft, parted slightly and redder than Jon had noticed the night before. Here, in the light of day, Jon sees the way the sun makes Robb's hair look almost Amber. He wants to run his fingers through the soft curls. He tries to imagine that life again; that life where he grew up with Robb by his side. Jon pictures a life where all his Sunday mornings were like this; with Robb, coffee and oversized woollen jumpers. It makes Jon sick, to think that all he can really wants, is Sunday mornings filled with Robb, coffee and sex.or: A life - and a family - that Jon has never known is brought crashing down on him with one, short phone call.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Here we are. 
> 
> I started writing this beast in 2016 and can’t quite believe I’m posting it for real human eyes. I think, perhaps, I intended for this to be a one shot? But three years and sixty thousand words later, here we are. 
> 
> Also a testatement to how old it is: R plus L does not equal J ... 
> 
> Isn’t it funny how an entire ship for me can be built on just one scene from a seven (almost eight) season show? Ten points if you guess the scene. 
> 
> Much love. 
> 
> P.s I always write these things on my phone, so there may be horrific mistakes. My apologies.

The day begins like any other.

The air is cold, crisp, biting at his cheeks as he walks head first into the autumn breeze. The leaves beneath his feet crack and break, mixing in with the wet sludge on the pavement that is sure to be staining his shoes. Yet, he can hardly muster the guilt (or even the desire) to care slightly about his shoes.

He doesn’t bother checking his watch, he doesn’t need the taunting hands to tell him what he already knows; that he’s late for work. It’s not his fault, really, but he doubts his boss will believe that. He never does.

Jon Snow’s not a bad person. In fact, some would argue he was a brilliant person; a great one. His job is menial, his life is menial, he is (by all appearances) menial, but beneath it all; Jon Snow is exceptional. Not that he would ever think that, mind you. For Jon’s mind is dark and dreary, plagued with cobwebs and dust that collects over the spots of intellect and determination. He buries down hope and talent, like a virus, not choosing to accept the parts of himself that would make him oh so different. Jon was never built for greatness, never built for courage or adoration. In fact, if Jon had his way, he would make you believe he was built for nothing. Nothing and no one.

When Jon was just a boy, he was never lonely. How could he be? With a mother who’s lips sang sunshine and eyes that sparked by the light of a fire. She was all he had, for so long, and he in turn was all she had. All they needed. Every memory of her he will ever lock away in his brain is painful and wonderful. He remembers her smile, her laugh; the way her hair as thick as chocolate ran down the back of her neck and far beyond her shoulders. He remembers how she read to him at night, telling the stories of Kings and Queens, dragons and love, and a battle that stretched on across all corners of the earth. But most of all, above all else, Jon remembers how she loved him. It was a fierce sort of love, almost intense, with the way she would hold him as if at any moment he could turn to dust. If Jon had of known, had of foreseen the future; he would have held on tighter.

One day; Jon was alone, and that was how he remained.

“Oh, Jon. Jon Jon Jon.”

The man in question sighs heavily, dropping the heavy coat from his shoulders and giving the woman behind the desk a look she has seen all too many times before.

 _“I know, I fucked up,”_ is what he wants to say, but he settles on his eyes to do the talking.

“He’s not happy, you know,” she says, judgement laced around her words like vines.

 _“When is he ever?”_  Is right on the edge of Jon's lips.

The morning proceeds in a way that is predictable and boring. His boss has “stern” words, Jon apologises, they move on. He answers calls, writes emails, files papers and drinks four cups of tea. Working at a bank was never something Jon dreamed of doing. When he was just a boy, he never told his mother dreams and aspirations of working as an accountant, of sitting behind a desk and staring at numbers on a screen until his eyes threatened to cross.

 _“I’m going to be a soldier,”_ he used to say to her, swinging his sword made of wood high into the air and up to the sky. _“I’m going to fight for noble men and die for pretty maidens, just like in your stories.”_

She would laugh, as she always did, telling him he would die for no one, and to take his mind from the clouds and keep his feet on the ground.

“Snow, Snow!”

Jon cracks from his lull, thoughts of his mother gone as he focuses on the woman from reception in front of him.

“Yes, Diane?” he asks, bored.

“There’s a call for you, on line one. I’m... not too sure what it’s about.”

Jon raises an eyebrow, now noticing the impertinent flashing red dot on his receiver below him.

“Thank you, Diane. Anything else?”

“Yes, this arrived for you just before.”

He nods at her in thanks, taking the manila folder from her hands and letting its weight sit heavy in his palm. Interesting.

The red continues to dot in the corner of his eye.

“Hello, this is Jon Snow?”

_“Hello Mr Snow, my name is Petyr Baelish, I work for the family Stark in their legal sector. I was wondering if you had a moment free to talk?”_

Jon confirms he does, keeping his voice even and without flinch. He has no idea what really was just said in such a small sentence, but he does not want this Petyr Baelish to confirm as much. He’s not exactly surprised, really. Jon often finds himself on the receiving end of calls from lawyers and advisers alike. The main concern is that he isn’t about to be sued for some form of financial fraud. In truth, that seems unlikely.

_“Mr Snow, we regret to inform you that your father has passed away.”_

The pen drops from Jon’s hands.

_“Congratulations, you now own half of Winterfell Industries.”_

Jon is silent, so silent, with not even his breath a sound that could invade his ears. He says nothing, and Baelish continues.

“ _I understand this may come as a bit of a shock to you, Mr Snow, but it is my duty to inform you on behalf of his Lord Starks last Will and Testament, that you have rightful claim to many of his assets. I have sent a copy to your place of work for you review, along with important documentation that needs signing within a sensitive time period. Furthermore, I wish to –“_

“I have no father,” Jon speaks, his voice foreign. “You have the wrong person.”

He hangs up.

*******

Eight days. Jon ignores it for eight days. His phone rings, relentlessly, accompanied by a string of emails and letters that he deletes and burns before they even have a chance to grace his sight. For eight days, Jon pretends it doesn’t exist, and he continues to live his life. It’s easier said than done, really, with each call and email and letter and buzz in his general direction making his hands want to reach out and accept the burning curiosity. The original folder sits in the bottom drawer of his desk, threatening to burn holes through the wood if it will mean Jon reads it. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

At 4:58pm, on the eighth day, Jon begins to collect himself to leave the office. He’s halfway through writing an email to the banks local area manager about insufficient labour percentages when Diane’s face appears at the foot of his desk.

“Sorry, Jon, I told him he needed to schedule a meeting, but he simply refuses to leave until he speaks with you.”

Part of Jon knows, but he asks anyway. “Who, Diane?”

“A Mr Petyr Baelish.”

Jon could run away, he thinks. He could pack up his things and leave through the back exit of the building. He could keep his coat up high around his cheeks and walk home so quick his shoes would protest against the pools of rain on the pavement. He could change his numbers, redirect his mail, make himself impossible to contact and track down; but he won’t, he doesn’t.

“Diane, please escort Mr Baelish to conference room four, I will meet him there shortly.”

She nods, turning quickly on her heel and out of sight. Jon panics.

Mr Petyr Baelish is everything Jon expects, and more. He stands behind the large table that sits in the centre of the room, papers spread out across the surface and holding himself in a way that seems imposing and laughable all at once. His storm grey eyes pierce through Jon in one slow and deliberate sweep of his frame; judging him. Jon can't deny he judges him in return, from the way his blue suit is tailored to his rake thin body, brown hair almost black, slicked down and gently grey on the sides. He's clean cut, sharp, not a hair out of place and absolutely screams _lawyer_. If it were under different circumstances Jon would probably think Mr Baelish carried a refined sort of handsome, the less obvious kind, but these are not those circumstances.

"Mr Snow," he smiles, too sweetly. "Please, take a seat."

The corner of Jon's mouth quirks. "I believe you are in my place of work, Mr Baelish."

"Indeed," he concurs. They both sit.

"I have to say," the man continues, shuffling a pile of papers in front of him, "you're not what I expected."

Jon can't help but raise an eyebrow. "Pray tell, what did you expect?"

"It's the accent, you see. Any northern accent always has me envisioning sweat pants and gold chains.”

Jon laughs. “How interesting. Whenever I hear a London accent I think of a ponce in a suit.”

Mr Baelish doesn’t laugh, but he smirks, thin lips forming an even thinner line. “I wish I didn’t have to be here, Mr Snow, but I’m afraid you gave me no choice.”

“I believe I did. I already told you, you have the wrong person.”

“I’m afraid not,” he says, the thin line of his lips still in place. “Believe me, this situation is not ideal. You have caused quite a stir, Mr Snow. Ned Stark would have made quite a few lives a lot simpler if you weren’t born. Or, I suppose, if he hadn’t died.”

Jon almost wants to laugh, purely at how ridiculous this all is. Petyr Baelish is quite possibly the bluntest person he’s ever met, with little to no care for anyone but himself, it seems.

“As far as my records tell me, you and Lord Stark never met, is this correct?”

“Let me get one thing straight,” Jon says, “I never knew my father and I never wanted to. Even if I did, I highly doubt he was some Lord from down South. My mother, she – she wasn’t running in high class circles. She was born poor, she lived poor, and she died poor. I find it hard to believe my _father_ would be living somewhere with money to burn and not helping her. You’re trying to tell me that my whole life I had a rich father who never gave me a single damn? Honestly, if this _Lord_ Stark was my father then I want absolutely nothing to do with him.”

Mr Baelish smiles, as if none of what Jon just said was horribly depressing. Jon wants to punch him in his teeth.

“Mr Snow, you really don’t have a choice. You are legally bound to your father, whether you like it or not. He has left you as one of the priority benefactors in his company, as well as stakes in both his wealth and his Estate. You may choose to do with this new found wealth what you will, you can renounce your position within the company and sell your shares, but there is a lot we need to get through before we reach that stage.”

Jon feels like he can’t breathe. “And if I refuse?”

“You can’t refuse the law, Jon.”

Jon slams his fist down on the table and Baelish doesn’t even flinch. “I didn’t ask for this! I don’t want to know who my father was; I don’t want to be part of his life. And I certainly don’t need his money.”

“Are you happy, Jon? Are you happy working at Bank of Yorkshire as an accountant? Think of the opportunity your father is presenting you with here, a chance to start fresh and _become_ something.”

_I was never born to become anything._

“Is there no one else he could have left all this too, no other family?” Jon’s voice sounds desperate now.

“Of course. Lord Stark has five other children.”

Jon can’t help it but his fist hits the table again. Yet, it’s more gentle now; a sign of defeat.

“Five children,” is all he manages to say. Five children. This man, this man he has never known, has five children. Was the thought of a sixth really so horrible twenty-six years ago?

“Yes, and they wish to meet you. You do all own a company together now, after all.”

Jon can’t believe this. He feels like he’s going to be ill.

“I’m not interested in meeting them,” he says. “Please pass on that message.”

Baelish frowns. “I would advise you Jon that that is an unwise decision. Whether you renounce your claim to your inheritance or not, you need to speak with the family.”

Jon wants to cry. _The Family._

“I’ve been told to invite you to the funeral; if that is something you would wish to attend.”

Jon’s laugh is almost manic. “You can’t be serious.”

“The choice is yours. But I do need to return to London with at least some answers.”

“Please, Mr Baelish, I need to think about this.”

“Fine,” he sighs. “But do not ignore me again; I did not take kindly to it the first time. I will need your signed contracts by Friday, at the latest; you can give them to me at the funeral if you choose to attend. Either way, you will need to make an appearance in London shortly. I can discuss these details with you via email or phone, but I will be expecting you to get in touch.”

Jon has never been so overwhelmed, unable to move as Baelish stands from his seat. 

"I'll leave these documents with you," he says, bunching them all into one neat pile to place in front of Jon. "They're further files of things I need for you to review. Don't hesitate to contact me with any queries." 

He moves to leave, brushing out the lines in his suit and leaving Jon to wallow in despair.

“Oh and Jon?" He pauses in the doorway. "He wrote you a letter, before he died. It's in the folder I originally sent you." 

*******

When Jon is at home many hours later, with the sun deeply set and a cup of tea in his hands, he stares at the papers that lie neatly across his worn dining table. He'd sorted through them without reading, organising them into categories he thought appeared appropriate. His mind is clouded by the letter, watching it stare at him from the far right of the table, begging to be read. Jon would be positively lying if he said he wasn't interested, with the curiosity so high he's mere seconds away from giving into the temptation. 

He wishes his mother was here, now more than ever. Part of him, a tiny part, is hurt that she never told him the truth. The other part, the one that is much bigger, wishes for her advice and more than anything; her love. 

Jon wasn't sure he could do this alone, but he does. He has to. 

Jon runs his fingers over the envelope addressed to him, his name written in a handwriting that is foreign to him and impossibly neat. It takes him a few moments to build up to opening it, unsure he's ready for a life he's never known. In the end he sighs angrily, ripping it open with no finesse and starts to read. 

 _Dear Jon,_  
  
_I never wished for it to be this way. There is so much I need to say to you, and yet, I find myself sitting here lost for words. I know that you must be confused, I do not blame you for that, and I apologise. Jon, there is so much I need to apologise for, I am unsure where to begin._  
  
_My life has been mapped out for me since before I was born. The Starks are an old family that have been in England for centuries, carrying on the name and "legacy" for generations. The company we own is called Winterfell, which is an enterprise that deals primarily in communication technologies and Eco manufacturing for a great percentage of England's agriculture. My father ran this company, as did my grandfather and his father before him and I do not intend for this legacy to change. Whilst I hold immense amounts of pride and honour for being part of such a tremendous family name, it was not what I always wanted. I grew into a life where everything was secure, from my job to my wife and everything in between. My parents had practically picked out the girl I was to marry when I was fifteen, pushing me into her life and her family that I hardly had a choice. However, I wish to make it clear that I love my wife so incredibly deeply. But this doesn't mean we have had a perfect life._  
  
_We had been married for less than a year when she told me she was pregnant with our first child. We were twenty-three, I was learning the company from my father and I panicked. I am not proud of what I did; I left her all alone and ran away to Leeds. For two months I rented a flat in the city, burned through half my trust fund and I met your mother. It was a short romance, a whirlwind affair that was over before it began, but you must know; I loved your mother immensely. She changed so many things about me, she showed me the difference between what was right and what was easy and how to give yourself to someone completely and wholly. She didn't approve of what I had done, she never did, which was why she forced me back in the end. I don't regret a single moment I ever spent with your mother, but neither do I regret making the decision to return to my wife. I was young and reckless, and I needed your mother to show me that. Four months later, my son Robb was born, and he has been the light of my life ever since._  
  
_My wife, Catelyn, never speaks of the time I ran. It is an issue we swept deep beneath the rug and never brought out again. So you can imagine her shock when I told her recently that I had a son in Leeds._  
  
_I never wanted to abandon you Jon, you must understand that. Your mother called me not long after I had returned to London, telling me the news. I wanted to be there for her, for the both of you, but she never allowed it. I want you to know that I tried, Jon. I tried to write, to call, to send money and gifts but your mother never accepted a single coin or word._  
  
_It broke my heart to hear of her death. I have kept tabs on you since you were born, and it did not take long for me to hear when she had passed. I wanted to be with you then, but I am a selfish man, and couldn’t bring myself to tell my wife or family. Sadly, it is me who now leaves this world. Dying really is inconvenient Jon, I do not recommend it. Were I in better health, I would return to Leeds to visit you, but I fear I do not have much time left._  
  
_I wish to have you in my Will because there is so much I never did for you that I always should have. You are my blood, Jon, and that is something I will never forget. It is important to me that you know I love you, that I wish things were different and we lived in a world where you could be part of my life and I could be part of yours. Even though you don't know me, know that I love you._  
_I understand if you hate me, I would hate me too. I should have been there for you, for so many parts of your life and I regret so many things. I regret so many things Jon, but I do not regret you or your mother._  
  
_Though we will not share my life together, I wish for you to share in my legacy._  
  
_Always remember you are in my heart._  
  
_Truly,_  
_Ned._  
  
Jon throws his mug so hard it smashes roughly against the kitchen wall. It all smashes.  
  
*******

Two days later, Jon finds himself in London.

He hates London, absolutely cannot stand it. He’s only been a handful of times, packing his bag against his will for company trips and meetings and counting down the minutes until he can return north. The city is too big, too _grey_ , with everyone in each other’s space to the point where Jon feels like he’s choking. He’s been off the train for less than ten minutes and he’s already been bumped into twice without any apology, almost stepped in chewing gum three times and found it next to impossible to get a cab. Not that it matters, he thinks, it will take him hours to get where he needs to be. He wants to go home, he doesn’t belong here.

Jon finally finds himself in a cab after what feels like forever, rushing out the address Baelish had given him on the phone not twenty-four hours ago. The lawyer was thrilled Jon would be attending the funeral, well, as thrilled as the man could manage. Jon told him he would come on one condition; his _father’s_ family weren’t to know he was there.

Jon doesn’t think he will ever get used to calling him that.

The church the cab pulls up at is impossibly large, towering so high that Jon can’t even begin to see the top from inside the car. There are people everywhere, spilling out onto the pavement and standing in small clusters. Jon already feels like he doesn’t fit in, can feel it in the way the people hold themselves; with tailored jet back suits and shoes that carry brand names Jon can safely say he’s never heard of.

“Will that be all, sir?” the cabbie asks, breaking Jon from his impending doom and has him apologising and handing over more money that what is necessary.

No one spares him a second glance at him as he steps out onto the footpath, talking closely and in hushed circles. Jon feels so incredibly lost, not sure where he should go or what he should do. This is all so foreign to him. He tails onto the end of a group making their way into the church, unable to stop himself from hearing the words that spill out of their tight huddle.

“And what does Robb think of all this?”

 _Robb_. Jon knows that name, of course he does. Ned’s first born.

“Of course he is keeping completely mum about the whole thing. You’d think he would be angrier, that there’s someone else fighting for his rightful spot as Ned’s heir.”

“I’m sure he is angry. I know I would be. In fact, I would be downright furious that some _kid_ from up north was challenging me to my birthright.”

“Did you hear about the tantrum Cat threw? Although, you can’t blame her. It must have been rough, to learn your husband is going to die and then find out there’s a whole life he never told you about.”

The group murmurs in agreement and Jon tries not to empty the contents of his breakfast onto the grand opening of the church. So, everyone knows. Jon guesses he’s not that surprised, really, rich folk tend to gossip.

He takes a seat as far up the back he can manage, keeping his coat on and his head low from prying eyes. The voices of guests milling in grow louder as the numbers begin to double, the sound bouncing off the high walls and never coming back down. Jon tries to catch a glimpse of any infamous family members, but in truth, he has no idea what he’s looking for. Or, _who_ he’s looking for.

When hushed voices turn to whispers Jon can’t help but follow the other eyes in the room, watching a woman walk down the aisle with her head held high and an unbelievable amount of poise and confidence following in her wake. Her face is as hard as steel, an expression that Jon believes she has trained herself to wear, with eyes as black as pools and lips as thin as wire. Jon doesn’t need to be told to know exactly who it is; Catelyn Stark.

If Jon decides one thing, it’s that he never wants to face this woman alone.

When she reaches the front of the church, she moves to stand beside a young man who squeezes her arm gently, her face softening just for a moment as she touches his hand. Jon doesn’t know why, he couldn’t explain it if he tried, but he finds himself leaning forward in his seat; unable to take his eyes off the man.

He’s tall, his body slight, and with a posture the Queen would be proud of. The line of his jaw is sharp, even the rough five o’clock shadow unable to hide the cut of it. Jon is envious of the way this man holds himself; strong and full of a confidence that Jon will never be able to hold of his own. It helps that the suit he wears is cut so well to his figure it should make any man in the room envious. Despite such a sorrow day, the man smiles, his lips full and pink and dancing with the bright teeth that refuse to be hidden. Jon likes him and loathes him, all at once. It’s maddening.

The funeral proceeds much as Jon expected it would. People talk and people weep and Jon feels out of place. He can’t say he feels sad, not really, just feels the sombre mood around him seep deep into his bones until all he can do is hang his head low and let it consume him. Jon doesn’t know the man they speak stories of, but he absorbs the words all the same, envisioning a life where this would all be different. He could sit up the front with the rest of them, holding the hands of hands that needed to be held and sharing tears of sorrow. But this is not that life.

None of the children speak, or Catelyn, but Jon isn’t too surprised.

When it’s over Jon wants nothing more than to leave, but he hangs around feeling uncomfortable. Baelish had told him to go to the reception afterward, that he would meet him there to discuss the necessary paperwork. Jon finds the whole notion incredibly morbid.

Later, at the reception, when Jon is drinking a heavy glass of wine and keeping his spare hand stuffed in his pocket, he keeps his eyes tracked on Ned Stark’s family. He thinks he’s pinned them all down now, figured them out by the way they move and hold themselves. What is it with Stark’s and holding themselves high?

There are three boys and two girls, ranging in age and height and hair colour and everything in between. The two boys are the youngest, no older than thirteen and fourteen each, and choosing to stick together like glue throughout the whole procession. The girls are different, choosing to gravitate so far away from each other that Jon is sure it’s a conscious thought. The younger one, judging from her features, sits away from most prying eyes, with her mouse brown hair tied back in messy braids and make up sparse. There’s a glass of wine in her hand, but Jon isn’t sure he can attribute that to her age and he isn’t sure he could blame her. The eldest girl, surely no younger than twenty, walks the room with a strong grace that she commands with only a look. Jon finds it sad, really, that a girl so young feels the need to follow rules of duty and honour. If Jon were to talk to her, to know her, he would tell her “It _’s okay to cry, my love. The world is not on your shoulders.”_

She is beautiful, Jon will admit. Her hair is as red as fire, falling gracefully down the sides of her skin that bares the colour of snow. Her smile is soft, gentle, talking to anyone who offers their respect and thanking them with a bow of her head. But those eyes, those piercing green eyes, are so sad.

Then there’s the boy ( _man_ ) that needs no introduction to Jon. Jon’s eyes have barely left him, can’t help but watch the way he moves around the room, less graceful than his sister but more sincere. Jon doesn’t want to know him, or any of them, and yet... _he does._

He see’s these people, watches them, and he can’t deny what his heart keeps trying to tell him; _these are your brothers and sisters._

“These things are so morbid, aren’t they?”

Jon almost chokes on his glass of wine as he curses himself for not paying more attention. How could he let this happen, this was all wrong.

He nods and takes a sip. He can’t look sideways.

“If I didn’t feel truly obligated to be here, I probably wouldn’t.”

Jon can’t speak.

“Why are you here, my friend? I don’t believe we have met, did you know my father well?”

Jon shakes his head, unsure what to say. It’s as if he’s forgotten how to speak. Or to breathe, for that matter.

“I’m Robb, by the way. Robb Stark.”

“I know who you are,” Jon says, his voice so low barely even he recognises it. Jon chances a glance at the man standing next to him, instantly regretting it when he does. Damn Robb Stark. Damn him.

“Well then, that is incredibly unfair, as I do not know who you are.”

Jon grins without humour. “And that is how we are going to keep it.”

Robb laughs. “A man of mystery, I like it. Mind if I join you for a drink?”

All Jon can do is shrug, taking the seat closest to him and offering Robb to join him with a wave of his hand. They sit in silence for a minute, neither saying a word as they sip at their drinks and let the buzz of talk around the room fill the gaps. Jon’s gaze follows Robb’s when the man breaks out in a sigh, looking to find the two sisters arguing quietly in the corner.

“My sisters,” Robb says, “Sansa and Arya. They love each other deeply but my goodness do they fight like cats and dogs.”

“How old are they?” Jon asks.

“Sansa, the red head, she’s twenty-three and Arya is eighteen. Sansa might be older, but Arya... she’s a clever little beast.” There’s light around his eyes, a fondness in his tone that makes Jon’s lips want to crack into a smile.

“Those two boys over there,” he continues, using the glass in his hand as a way to point out the brothers in question, “are my younger brothers, Bran and Rickon. They’re only young, thirteen and fifteen. Thick as thieves those two, which is nice, I suppose. It’s them I feel sorry for the most, in all this. I don’t think they truly know what’s going on. They’re old enough to know, but I don’t think they truly know what lies ahead. At least they have each other.”

“And who do you have, Stark?”

Robb’s eyes find his, the silence between them suddenly as thick as December fog.

“No one.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. So he says nothing at all.

“I should go,” Robb says finally, tearing their gazes apart. “It was nice to meet you, mystery man.”

Jon smiles. “You too, Robb.”

Jon feels giddy, and he hates himself.  
  
*******

“I’ll do it.”

“Sorry?”

“I’ll do it,” Jon says again, handing the signed papers over to Baelish as they stand out on the pavement in a light, barely there London rain. “I will fulfil my duties as Lord Stark’s heir.”

“Mr Snow, I am delighted!” the man exclaims loudly. “I am so glad you decided to come to your senses. First things first; you will need to meet Robb.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh hello thank you so much already for the kind words and reassuring feedback :) 
> 
> please enjoy the below and try ignore my shitty excuse of self Beta-ing. 
> 
> thanks :)

Petyr Baelish arrives for him at precisely nine a.m. on Saturday morning, pulling up outside his hotel in Brixton in a car that is far too flash for the neighbourhood it graces.

“Good morning, Jon,” he says with no emotion and his eyes not leaving the phone in his palm. “Why in God’s name did you have to stay in Brixton of all places? You’re about to be a millionaire Jon, no need to stand on ceremony.”

Jon ignores him, instead breathing in the oddly appealing smell of new car leather. “How far until the house?”

“The Stark Estate is in a small town just north of the Cotswolds. It will take a couple of hours, but no more, I presume.”

“Why do they want me there? Don’t they have places in London?”

“Oh, of course, but the family has been staying there since Ned’s death and they wish for you to be there too.”

Secretly (or perhaps not so secretly), Jon is dreading this. He doesn’t want to drive out for a day of tea and scones at the Stark Estate; he doesn’t want to make small talk with people who share his blood and never knew he existed until the death of their father. He doesn't want any of this, really. 

The drive to the country is quiet, peaceful, and Jon can feel his lungs breathe easier with each mile they inch away from London. The scenery passes by him in a blur, concrete jungle giving way to highway and highway giving way to lush expanses of green. Jon can’t deny that his stomach feels as if it bound tightly with knots, unable to stop from checking the hands on his watch as they arrive close and closer. There isn't enough cool, country air in the world that could uncoil the knot forming in his chest.

Baelish isn't exactly the most forthcoming car companion, yet, Jon relishes in the silence. It gives him a chance to think. A chance to think of all the things he's ever done wrong and acts he has not yet done. He should be at  _home_ , on the couch with a bowl of muesli and reading the news in the paper he vows he's going to stop buying but never does. It leaves one to beg, as he ponders, what has he done to deserve this? A morbid thought, really. Perhaps more morbid that the circumstances that led him here were due to a man's death. 

“We’re nearly there,” Baelish says after they’ve turned off the highway and onto streets so narrow Jon’s not sure the Range Rover will fit. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Jon.”

Jon highly doubts that. He can’t help but worry about what Robb will think of him, almost sure that the man will not take kindly to being  _lied to_ at his own father’s funeral. Not that Jon had lied, per say, withheld the truth may be more apt. Jon could have told him then, when they were sharing a drink and the same air; “ _He_ _y, by the way, I’m your dads bastard child and we’re brothers.”_

Somehow, that does not feel like it would have been a fair judgment of the situation. Jon rationalises that he had acted in the only way that could have been appropriate. Yes, he had lied and yes it had been at his,  _their_ , father's funeral but would it have not been worse? Worse to bring something down on Robb's shoulders, shoulders that already held far too much weight. Jon doesn't know why, and maybe he can't explain it, but there is a part of him that craves Robb's approval. Yet, perhaps he is misconceiving this feeling for fear of rejection. 

Baelish brings the car down to a crawl as they approach a set of wide gates, driving through them and onto a narrow pebbled drive way. It doesn’t take long for the house to come into view, and despite himself, Jon feels a sharp intake of breath rush to his lungs. He's never been one to get lost in aesthetic beauty, more a man of practicality than societal concepts of physical attraction, but the feeling remains the same. 

“Welcome to the Stark Estate,” Baelish says, pulling up in front of quite possibly the most beautiful house Jon has ever seen. Which all sounds rather dramatic, but the truth, nonetheless, remains. 

 _Surely this cannot be real_ , Jon thinks, feeling as if he has just stepped inside one of his mother’s stories as he gets out of the car and the pebbles crunch under his feet. The three storey cottage is large, impossibly so, but fits in like a matching puzzle piece to the forest around it. Trees and flowers and every flora and fauna in between encase the house like a heart, with vines and ivy running from the flowerbeds below, up hard stone and all the way to the roof. If Jon is not mistaken he can hear a river from somewhere to the left of the house, hidden by oak tree’s and a garden path lined with roses. It is stunning, in every way Jon knows how to describe it, and his heart aches for a life he never had.

Jon is broken from his musings when the large wooden front door of the house is thrown open, the young girl he knows to be Arya Stark wasting no time in walking from the house in a pair faded blue jeans and a hoodie to come stand directly in front of him. She looks utterly dishevelled, with her hair tucked behind her ears and the strands flying in any which way they choose. Last night's mascara smudges under her eyes, not in a way that's inherently obvious but enough to notice. Or, enough to observe she does not care enough to remove make up before she goes to bed. Her eyes are large and careful, taking Jon in with every inch she can. 

“You must be Jon.”

Jon is (only slightly) taken aback by the forwardness of her behaviour, unsure if he’s impressed or wary. He doesn’t speak straight away; instead choosing to stare the girl down in the same fashion she does him. “Yes,” is all he says. It doesn't intentionally meant to sound rude, but he stands ground all the same. 

She makes a soft hum of approval under her breath. “Okay.”

And as quick as she'd judged, she breathes, Jon breathes and he feels accepted.

“My name is Arya,” she says, beckoning Jon to follow her inside the house. “This is all pretty shit, isn’t it?”

“Well,” Jon hesitates, “yes. Yes it is.”

“I won’t lie to you Jon, you’ve caused quite the stir.”

“I don’t doubt it.” And he's sure that's putting it incredibly mildly. 

“Please forgive my mum, but she won’t be joining us today.”

“That’s quite alright?” Jon answers, as if he's answering a question with an answer he can't be sure is correct.

“Actually, don’t forgive her, because she’s being a total bitch.”

Jon can’t help but laugh softly. “You're something else, aren't you”

She smiles, slightly manic. “I’m the only sane one.”

She ushers him into the house, showing him where he can put his coat and not even giving him a second to take it all in before she’s dragging him down the hallway. Jon spares a quick thought for Baelish, not even sure if the man was invited into the house and not sure if he cares.

“I’ll give you the grand tour later,” Ayra says as they enter into a positively  _cosy_ living room situated somewhere deep at the back of the house. The room is filled with large mismatched furniture, three different large rugs across the floor and art from who knows what genre adorning the walls. Jon's never particularly fashioned himself as an expert of art or design but he knows it’s messy and it's odd and he loves it.

“I’ll admit, I didn’t think your house would be like this.” What  _had_ he been picturing? Hard to say. 

Arya shrugs. “I like it better this way.”

“Me too.”

She takes Jon’s arm to pull him down onto the large three seater couch, the cushions and pillows almost sucking Jon into a complete cocoon of comfort he’s not sure he’ll ever leave.

“Are your other siblings here?”

“Bran and Rickon, my two younger brothers, went into town this morning so they’re not here but they’ll be back at some point. Robb and Sansa are here, though.”

Jon nods, feeling his throat tighten. “So, what do you –“

“You were at the funeral,” Arya interrupts. “I saw you there.”

Jon is caught slightly off guard, unaware he had even been in Arya's radar on that day. "Yes, I was.”

“I hated it.”

“The funeral?”

“Yeah. It was just a day of people I’ve never met telling me how “sorry” they were and burying my dad in a way he never would have wanted.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly.

“He would have hated it. All that stupid fanfare.”

“Maybe he –“

“No,” she snaps, “you don’t get to decide what my dad would or wouldn’t have wanted.”

Jon feels as if he’s been burned. “Arya, I’m so sorry, I –“

“It’s fine,” she says, softer now. “I didn’t mean to snap, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You have every reason to hate me.”

She sighs, her brow furrowing. “I wanted to, Jon. I really did. It was really hard to find out that my dad had another kid somewhere. I wasn’t angry you existed; I have heaps of friends whose parents have kids with more than one person, but, it wasn’t the same for us. We played happy family for all this time, all this fucking time, and for all that time my dad kept this big secret from us.”

“Arya, really, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she smiles sadly. “I’m sure you were angry too.”

Jon sinks further into the cushions, nodding. “I’ll be honest, yes. At first I just wanted to ignore it. I never knew my father, my mum never spoke of him and it was just something I grew up never having. I grew up pretty poor, my mum wasn’t a wealthy woman, and I guess I was angry to hear that there was some rich guy in London who never gave a single damn. I’m sorry, I know he’s your dad and I don't know why I'm telling you all this.”

“It’s okay, I understand. I guess he was a bit of a dick.”

Jon can’t help but smile a bit. “That’s one word, I suppose.”

“I just want you to know Jon, despite what I said, I’m actually really glad you’re here.”

Jon truly smiles then. “Me too.”

Arya opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the door being swung open rather too harshly. “Arya!” The girl he knows to be Sansa practically yells, “what are you doing?! We have a  _guest_ , he shouldn’t be in here and you shouldn’t be dressed like that.”

Sansa Stark stands imposingly over them, her vibrant red hair tied in neat braids that flow down her back; a colour to match the hue of her cheeks. She mirrors Arya, much like the moon mirrors the sun, all sharp angles and poise, where Arya is soft and relaxed. Despite it not even being midday on a Saturday, Sansa is dressed as if someone vastly more important than Jon were to be coming over, her skirt tight and blouse soft. Jon will take it as flattery, he supposes, but he can't help but feel sorry for the girl. 

Arya, on the other hand, rolls her eyes so hard Jon thinks they’ll fall into the back of her skull. “Oh who cares, Sansa," she says. "He’s our brother now, anyway.”

Sansa’s lips purse into a tight thin line, her crystal blue eyes almost clouding to grey before she turns to face Jon. “Mr Snow,” she tries her best to smile. “I’m so sorry for my sisters rudeness, I would have tidied if I had of known you were going to be brought in _here._ ”

Arya completely ignores her sisters glare. "Come the fuck off it, Sansa. Relax."

Sansa’s cheeks truly have turned the same shade of her hair. “Arya, please.”

“Fine,” she groans, far too over the top. “Mr Snow, would you please accompany me to the drawing room?”

“I would love to,” he says, voice neutral, so as to not antagonise the older girl too much. 

“Thank you,” Sansa sighs. “Robb and Mr Baelish are waiting for us.”

Jon feels his chest tighten in a way he can’t explain and almost like she had been expecting it, Arya is quick to press into his side. “Don’t be nervous about Robb,” she says. “He’s really nice.”

Jon doesn’t doubt that.

Before they’ve even reached the drawing room the raised voices begin to float through the dark wooden door; too soft to be heard. Jon can only assume Robb and Baelish are arguing, and he prays it’s not about him.

“Sir,” complete irritation colours Baelish's tongue. 

Jon can see the red burn in the man's cheeks from across the room the second the door is open, blooming up his neck. He stands with a folder of papers in one hand and phone in the other, staring up at Robb as if his patience couldn’t be lost any further. Robb’s back faces Jon and the girls; he doesn't need his face to be showing for an educated guess to be made that he's thoroughly disliking the conversation being had. 

“Oh stop it, the both of you,” Arya says loudly, snapping both men from their feud to turn and face the gathering at the door.

Robb’s eyes find Jon’s in a heartbeat and Jon can’t deny the way his throat tightens, almost to the point of pain. Robb knows, and Jon knows he knows. He expects for Robb to react; for his face to scrunch in confusion and his mouth to start yelling angry words of betrayal. Not that Jon has betrayed him, mind you. Perhaps only slightly. 

But Robb does none of this. Instead, he smiles.

“Ah, you must be Mr Snow, welcome to our home.”

Jon says nothing.

“I forgive this rudeness, Mr Snow,” Robb says, crossing the room quickly to extend his hand to Jon’s. Jon takes it without hesitation, revelling in the warmth and strength of the touch. Robb's faceis almost too close, close enough that Jon could begin to count the freckles over his nose. “Not at all,” Jon manages to say, but unable to manage letting go of his hand.

Sansa clears her throat, the sound polite and sweet and Robb lets go of his hand all too soon. “Mr Snow,” Sansa’s voice rings, “can I offer you any tea?”

Jon’s eyes don’t leave Robb’s. “Please, can everyone call me Jon?”

“Jon,” Robb says, the word so soft on his tongue, as if he's testing it, tasting it. “Can my sister get you anything to drink?”

“No thank you,” he responds. “Actually, I could probably down a double whiskey at this point.”

Robb laughs, a deep and beautiful sound. “How about we save that for tonight. Unfortunately, there is work to be done.”

The three siblings, Jon and Baelish take a seat at the large round table in the centre of the room, Jon taking the seat next to Arya as if it will offer him some form of comfort. Baelish starts to lay papers out before him, sorting them into piles and muttering under his breath. Arya picks at her nails, seemingly bored with the whole thing and Jon can’t say he blames her. Sansa sits with her back straight and her lips in a soft smile, waiting to do what is asked of her. And Robb? Well, all Robb does is stare at Jon.

Despite his better judgement, Jon stares back.

“So,” Baelish says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s talk business.”

“Forgive me, Mr Baelish,” Robb smiles, “but should we not get to know Jon first? After all, he is our  _brother_.”

Robb is grinning at Jon and Jon feels his stomach turn.

“There will be time to get to know each other later,” Baelish dismisses with a wave of his hand. “But we need to sort out these details sooner rather than later.”

*******

After what feels like a lifetime later, Jon signs his name to the last piece of paper Baelish has shoved in his face. In truth, the day had gone smoother than Jon could have anticipated. He had made it clear from the beginning that he had no interest in stepping on toes or stealing away rights that weren’t his. Arya made it clear she didn’t care, as long as her dad would be happy, Sansa made it clear she only wanted what was right for their father, the company and her family and Robb made it clear that he was beginning to get a taste of what it felt like to torment Jon. 

When Jon had said, “ _I will take whatever role in the company you see fit.”_

Robb had replied, “ _And what if that role is by my side?”_

And really, what was Jon meant to make of that?

Terms had been agreed upon and preliminary plans made. Jon was to move to London, that much was non-negotiable, and he was to move into a flat owned by the Starks in Chelsea. Robb was to be his mentor, with Jon following his steps for as long as needed to learn of the companies running. Jon had expressed he had no interest in running the company with Robb if that was not what Robb wanted; that he would take a back seat and let Robb live his birth right. "Nonsense," Robb had said, "I'm going to need help." 

Both Arya and Sansa agreed to be major shareholders in the company, with Sansa more than happy to only assist when she needed to and Arya wanting to focus on university more than a company she "didn't really care about." They all agreed that Bran and Rickon were too young, that they would be free to make their own decisions once they turned eighteen, even if that decision was to just make use of a hearty trust fund. 

Ultimately; everyone was happy. Well, as happy as someone like Baelish could be. And, for that matter, if  _happy_ was even an emotion Jon was allowing himself to feel at this point.  

Jon was mostly overwhelmed, not yet able to comprehend the thought of just how much his life had changed in the last month and how much it had yet to change still. Moving to London didn't seem too bad, really. It wasn't his ideal choice of location, but then, he wouldn't have said finding out he had a rich father with a company and a whole family he never knew about being his ideal choice either. How quick things were to change. Blink, and you will miss them. 

Somehow, being here, with Robb and Arya and even Sansa (who he was sure he would warm to in time); it felt right. Somehow, it all felt right. It felt like everything Jon was searching to find in the dark has been made easier. Somehow, someone had turned on the light. 

"Jon, we should get going," Baelish says as the clock strikes four, already starting to gather his things. "I don't want to drive back to London in the dark." 

"Nonsense," Robb says quickly. "Jon will spend the night here, with us." 

Baelish raises a well groomed eyebrow and Jon's brain scatters. 

"Really, I wouldn't want to impose, I didn't bring anything with me," Jon says with a dry mouth. 

"Not to worry," Robb responds with a smile. "I'm sure we have everything you will need right here. I will drive you back to London myself in the morning." 

Jon feels it would be rude to deny such a generous offer, which is why he nods. He tells himself it's the only reason. 

"Fine," Baelish says. "I'll leave you all to it. I'll be in contact soon." And as soon as he had come, he leaves, closing the door behind him without another word. Jon is still yet to make up his mind on the man. Something too slimy and too false sits too uncomfortably in him to make an educated opinion. 

Jon sits awkwardly, unsure what to say next as the three Starks stare at him in silence. "So," Sansa says, breaking the quiet, "this is a nice surprise. Shall I make dinner arrangements?" 

"That won't be necessary, Sansa," Robb says softly, touching her hand that sits atop the table. 

Jon's heart is soft for Sansa, he notes. He's not sure why, he hardly knows the girl really, but he finds himself wanting to smooth out the worried lines that seem to plague her face constantly. He is sure that Robb feels the same. It is obviously, from the way his thumb brushes so barely there across his sister's knuckles. 

"I'll take Jon into town." 

Sansa looks as if she hardly approves, but smiles at Robb all the same, squeezing his hand quickly before she lets go. "Well, if you'll excuse me this has really worn me out. I think I might just go tuck up in the living room with some Netflix and tea. It's nice to have you here Jon, truly. I'll see you later on I'm sure."

"Thank you, Sansa," Jon says, touched by her kindness, no matter how forced it often seems. 

She leaves the room quietly and Arya jumps up to extend a hand out to Jon. "Well, since you're staying, I better give you the grand tour." 

Jon takes her hand and lets her pull him up, not that he needs it. She is grinning and Jon can't deny that it is infectious. "A grand tour huh?" 

"Yep. You'll learn all there is to know about this house I guarantee it." 

"Excuse me," Robb laughs with both humour and irritation tinting his eyes, "are you stealing my guest?" 

" _Our_  guest," Arya corrects. "Don't worry Robb, I'll return him to you all in good time so you can do whatever it is you want to do with him." 

Robb can't help but cough a laugh and Jon can't help but flush red, and he has no idea why. Arya pays neither of them any mind. "Come on Jon, we're killing Robb's bonding time." 

Walking through the house and learning its corners and secrets with Arya is nice. She's funny and clever and quick and Jon finds himself enjoying her company more and more by the minute. They walk through grand rooms and small rooms and everything in between. There's more history and character in this house than Jon would have thought possible, with Arya telling him impressive stories that could rival his mothers with their opulence. Jon is sure that less than half the things she tells him are actually true, but he smiles and laughs at her stories all the same. He tells her how beautiful the house is and her reply is that he should stay forever. 

Jon's heart is trying to find reasons to argue at this point. 

Arya shows him to the guest room after every inch of the house has been scoured. The room is much like the rest; warm and safe, with art on the walls that make no sense and a large bed that looks far too inviting for such an early hour in the afternoon. A fireplace sits on the far wall, the flames low and gentle, barely making a crack. 

"I'm pretty sure everything you need is in here," Arya says. "There are toothbrushes and spare clothes and probably whatever else." 

"Do you have people here often?" 

"No. This place... It's different to our home in London. This place, it's  _ours_. It's just for family." 

Jon's not sure he can handle that, not yet. 

"Alright, I've done enough socialising for one day. I'm going to go chill, I'll tell Robb you're all his." 

Arya leaves Jon standing in the centre of the room, left to run his hand over the smooth banister of the oak bed and steel himself for how he'll manage a night with Robb Stark. He's not sure what it is about Robb that makes him nervous, and yet, he does. Jon's not sure if it's his grace, his kindness, his cleverness, his looks or everything in between. It would be fair to say that Jon was intimidated, to put it mildly. Robb was everything that Jon had never been; handsome, charming, smart and funny and strong. If Jon's life had of been different, he imagines a childhood with the Starks in it. He imagines growing up with Robb at his heels, the two boys close in age and close in, well, everything else. Jon sees a life where they would have compete, at everything; at sports and games and school and girls and  _life_. He would have hated Robb, he knows it, because Robb would have beaten him in everything and yet, he would have loved Robb more than anything else.  

That scares Jon more than he could ever say. 

"Are you just going to do that all afternoon, Jon?" 

Jon breaks from his thoughts quickly, turning on his heel to face Robb who leans so effortlessly in the doorway. "Sorry?" He asks with a laugh, unable to stop the nervous tick of scratching the back of his neck. 

"Stare at the bed. I mean, it's a nice bed I grant you that, but it is not yet bed time young man." 

"Bed time," Jon snorts, "I'm not a child." 

"No, perhaps not, perhaps you just respond well to taking orders." 

Jon feels himself visibly bristle, wanting nothing more than to drop his gaze to the floor and laugh in response. Yet, somehow, Jon finds his tongue challenging Robb's words before he knows how to stop them. "Is that what I'll be doing under you, Stark, taking orders?" 

The look on Robb's face is fairly priceless, making Jon's lips crack into a grin. "At the company, I mean."

"We'll see who's laughing soon enough," Robb grins back. "Now, hurry up, we need to get you that double whiskey." 

*******

The village Robb takes him to is about a ten minute walk down the road. The walk is nice, pleasant and above everything  _safe._ Robb spends the short time talking about the area more than anything else, explaining why they were where they were and the history of Stark legacies. Jon barely has to say a word, simply nodding and humming in approval when he needs, using the walk to stare ahead and not let himself be tangled up in Robb's immediate presence. Jon can feel that they are on the edge of something bigger. There's a conversation they need to have, they both know it, but it's being put off like it will harm them if they speak of it. 

The pub Robb takes him to is small and quaint, with dark leather booths lining the walls and quiet spots for quiet drinks. Robb nods towards a booth in the back, telling Jon he'll grab the drinks and offers no room for argument about money. 

Jon sinks into the leather of the dark couch and catches Robb staring at him from the bar. Robb smiles, almost instantly and Jon takes a cowards approach; he looks away. 

"Stop it," Jon mutters under his breath.  _Stop being nervous_. 

Easier said than done. 

"Right, here we are, double whiskey for Snow and a pint for Stark." 

Robb places the drinks down on the table and slides in opposite Jon. Despite the slab of wood between them, they're close enough that their knees touch. 

Jon has barely lifted the drink to his lips when Robb says, "so, it's nice to finally meet you."

The whiskey gets caught in Jon's throat wrong, burning terribly and making him cough hard into the back of his hand. He doesn't know if he can answer, being challenged with a particular hard stare from Robb enough to make him forget his voice. 

"Did you really think I would not know it was you?" Robb asks, an irritated humour colouring his voice. "I'm not stupid." 

"I know," Jon replies, instantly and breathless. "I know you're not stupid." 

"Good." Robb starts grinning and Jon feels his heart in his throat. "Don't stress so much, Snow. I hope you realise you weren't as much as a mystery as I made you out to be." 

Jon raises an eyebrow, Robb's emotions changing and growing too quickly for him to keep up. 

"My father tells me he has another son who he wants to run Winterfell with me and you think I have no interest to learn everything about you? My father kept tabs on you from the day you were born, so with one phone call I had access to your whole life summed up in a folder. You were a cute child, weren't you Snow? Who would have thought that hair could have been any curlier than it is now?" 

Gods, the whiskey burns. Perhaps, though, it is the embarrassment. 

Jon ponders over the idea of Robb scouring over his life and finds himself oddly calm about the idea. "So, I guess I'm not a mystery at all, then?"

"On the contrary," Robb sighs. "I do like an element of surprise."

"Oh?"

"All I saw were pictures." 

Jon nods, taking a long slow sip of his drink. "It's slightly unfair. I mean, how come I don't get to see Robb Stark as a child?" 

Robb laughs, showing his white teeth. "Stick around long enough Snow and you'll see plenty of those." 

Jon smiles behind his drink. "So, you're not mad?"

"Not really," Robb shrugs. "I'll admit, I was surprised you were there. I thought perhaps if I introduced myself to you, you'd have no hesitation in introducing yourself in return. But, I've learnt fairly quickly that you're not exactly an extrovert."

"I'm sorry, truly."

Robb's expression is soft, almost gentle. "It's okay. Thank you, for being there."

*******

Four whiskeys later and Jon feels like he's on a cloud. His head feels loose and head foggy, with everything Robb says making him smile and laugh behind his hand. After the third drink and a trip to the loo, Robb had returned to the booth to slide into the seat next to Jon. Space was limited, with Robb's arm extended behind him on the couch and their thighs pressed together so tight that Jon felt as if he had plunged too quickly into an icy bath. Robb was so close, too close, that Jon's nose is assaulted with Robb's natural smell of flowers and trees and musk and sandalwood. His teeth are bright and brilliant and white and the lines around his eyes crinkle when he laughs. It's overwhelming. Beyond overwhelming. 

"So, Jon, I guess no one thought to ask you a very important question." 

"And what would that be?" Jon asks with his lips on his fifth glass. A venture that can surely not end well. 

"Well, we've asked you to uproot your life up north to come and live down here with us and no one ever thought to ask what you would be leaving behind. I would ask if you had a lady love but then, I feel as if you would have mentioned it." 

"A lady love," Jon snorts. "No, I am tragically alone." 

Robb smiles, moving his hand to rest against Jon's neck. His fingers are soft and warm, burning Jon's skin. "Don't worry, Snow, you've got me." 

Robb's hand doesn't move and Jon swallows the lump in his throat. "What about you, Stark? Got yourself a lady love?" 

Robb's lips twitch, his grip tightening. "No." 

All Jon can do is raise an eyebrow. 

"I was married." 

"Oh." 

Jon wants to speak, but Robb doesn't give him a chance. "Her name was Talisa." 

"Robb, you don't have to -" 

"I want to," Robb says, "can I? I feel like, I find myself wanting to tell you."

"Okay," Jon nods as Robb's thumb presses into his tendon. 

"We met at university. I was in my final year, studying business, and she was a fifth year medicine student. We met in the hospital when I thought I had broken my arm and she had come out of surgery. She had blood all over her scrubs and a hair net on her head, she was messy and dirty and told me to “suck it up” and she was the most beautiful person I think I'd ever seen. We fell in love instantly; I think I told her I loved her after the fourth date. It all moved so quickly and before I knew it I was getting down on one knee and asking her to marry me. My parents were  _not_  happy about it, gods, they were not happy at all. They liked Talisa, my whole family did, but they warned me against moving so quickly. Of course I didn't listen; it made me want to marry her even sooner, so I did. We ran off one day to the registration office and signed some papers and that was it. She was Mrs Talisa Stark and we were twenty-five years old. Everyone was furious for a while but they got over it, learnt to accept that we were happy and left us to it. We had been married just over one year and things had been pretty good but - I guess - I don't know. She was working all the time, I was working at Winterfell with Dad and any time we did spend together we were tired and irritated and took it out on each other. One day, I got home and the place was empty of her things. In one day, she managed to delete herself from my life, not even a fucking hair tie on the bathroom counter to prove she had ever been there. I had fallen in love, gotten married and had my heart broken and divorce papers to sign in the space of just over a year. How does that even happen?" 

Robb goes quiet, his fingers brushing down the side of Jon's neck so gently that Jon isn't even sure Robb is aware he's doing it. 

"So, that was that. She fell out of love with me almost as quickly as she had fallen in love with me. And I thought maybe the worst part was that I was so wrong about a person. She married me and yet, she didn't even care enough to fight for it, in the end. But the worst part? Everyone was right. Everyone was fucking right. I rushed into it too quickly and I let myself get hurt. I guess I'm just an idiot."

"No," Jon says quickly, leaning in to Robb so close he can feel the man’s breath on his lips. "You're not an idiot. Love makes us do crazy things."

Robb's eyes flicker to Jon's mouth. "Yeah? What about you? What crazy things have you done for love?" 

"Maybe that's a story for another time," Jon says quickly, leaning back to put space between them and pretending not to notice the flash of disappointment in Robb's eyes. "It's not a bad thing, you know, to be divorced."

"Divorced at twenty-seven? Yeah, that's really attractive."

"I don't think you need to worry about people finding you attractive."

Robb raises an eyebrow. "Oh, is that so?" 

Jon laughs, it's the only thing he knows how to do at this point. It helps fend off everything else swirling around in his chest. "Shut up." 

"This is nice," Robb says, moving his hand to Jon's shoulder. Jon is so hyper aware of that damn hand he's convinced his skin will burst into flames. "I always wanted a brother." 

"Don't you have two?"

"Well of course. But there's over ten years difference between me and Bran and Rickon, so it's hard to be close to them like that. I love them, don't get me wrong, but we've always been at such different stages in our life. I always wanted to have someone to grow up with. To play video games and play football in the backyard and stay up late watching movies. I don't know, it's stupid."

"I like all those things," Jon says softly. "It's not too late to have a brother." 

Jon is not in control of himself. All he can do is stare at Robb and can't miss the way Robb stares at his lips. Robb's hand curls around his neck to pull him closer and Jon panics. 

"I fell in love with someone when I was eighteen," he says, creating distance and regretting it when Robb’s hand moves off of him and to rest against the couch. "I'll be honest with you Robb, I've never had a lot of people in my life. No siblings, hardly any friends - it was just me and my mum for so long. I guess I always liked girls, but it was different when I actually had someone like me back. She was so reckless, more than I ever was. She would ditch class to go smoke behind the gym and she would cheat off me in maths and dragged me to detention with her more times than I could count. She was wild and impulsive and free and I fell head over heels." Jon laughs and Robb stares at him so hard Jon feels as if he's going to crack. 

"We dated for five years and it was great. Well, I mean yeah of course it was great, but God..."

"What happened?" Robb asks with intent. 

"We were at that stage in our lives where we grew up, but we grew up separately. Eighteen to twenty-three.... You change so much. You become a different person, and we just couldn't handle that. I was at uni, studying to become an accountant, and she was partying every night and wanting to live everyday like it was her last. I got boring, she didn’t like that, she tried to change me and it was so destructive. So, that was it. We ended things.”

Robb raises an eyebrow. “That was it, just like that?”

All Jon can do is shrug. “These things happen.” These things  _don't_ happen and Jon knows it. But hashing out old wounds about the only girl he thought he'd ever love is not conducive to anyone's health, he thinks. 

Robb looks as if he hardly agrees, but he doesn’t push it and for that; Jon is thankful. “Tell me about your sisters,” Jon asks.

Robb smiles softly. “It’s crazy, having sisters. For a long time it felt like just Sansa, Arya and I. I don’t think I can quite explain what it’s like to grow up as the older brother of two girls who were at each other’s throats pretty much since the day Arya was born. Even as a baby, I swear, Arya would cry whenever Sansa was around just to annoy her.” Robb laughs and Jon can’t help but twitch his lips in return.

“They couldn’t be more different if they tried, and yet, they love each other. No matter what either of them would say I know they would take a bullet for one another. Arya almost killed this guy who hurt Sansa; it’s a long story for another time perhaps.”

“Sansa, she…” Jon hesitates, “she’s been through some shit, hasn’t she?”

Robb nods, his eyes dark. “Yeah. I know she seems really uptight, but she’s been through a lot of stuff. I try to tell her all the time that the only person she needs to please in this world is herself; but she doesn’t listen. She’s getting better though, she’s been dating someone.”

“That’s nice for her.”

“Yeah, bit of a shock though.”

“How come?”

“She’s dating a girl.”

Jon can’t say he’s _not_ shocked, which must be clearly written all over his face.

“Don’t worry, I was more surprised than you are,” Robb chuckles. “But it kind of makes sense now. Like, I get it.”

“What's the girl like?"

“She’s great, her name is Margaery. She’s been so good for Sansa, they’re really different but they just work, you know? Margaery gets Sansa out of her head and she’s happier than I’ve seen her in a really long time.”

“That’s… yeah. That’s really good.”

“You’re telling me. Although, it didn’t come without its dramas. You’ve met my sister; do you think this was, or, is, and easy part of herself to accept?"

 Jon thinks about it for a second, just a second, imagining a world in which Sansa was comfortable in her own skin and comfortable with who she loved. Perhaps that's not fair, Jon doesn't know the girl, but he imagines Sansa's relationship hasn't come without a heavy cross to bare. "Yeah," is all Jon can say, letting his finger run around the rim of his empty glass. 

“She’s not really entirely comfortable yet, so, maybe don’t say anything to her about it.”

“I won’t,” Jon assures. “And what about Arya? What’s her story?”

“Her story,” Robb grins, “is a pretty simple one. She’s a determined, head strong, little pain in my ass. She’s always known who she is and what she’s wanted and I can assure you that if she wants something she won’t stop until she has it.”

“She’s pretty great.”

“Yeah, she is. I’m surprised she’s taken to you so well, she usually hates new people.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m just so irresistibly charming?”

Robb’s lips twitch. “Maybe you are, Jon Snow.”

Jon finds himself studying Robb’s face in the comfortable silence that follows. He runs his eyes down the side of Robb’s jaw, taking in the way the rough five o’clock shadow suits him too well and unable to not notice the deep pink colour of Robb’s lips. It’s strange, Jon thinks, to study a man’s lips with such intent.  If he panics, he pretends he doesn’t.

“She’s an idiot,” he says quickly, unsure of what he is saying until Robb stares at him questioningly.

“Who?”

“Your ex-wife."

Robb’s response is an amused, if albeit sad, smile. He takes a grip on Jon’s shirt, letting his thumb run over the button and doesn’t say a word. Jon’s breath is shallow, unsure what to do next when Robb’s hand moves to cup his jaw. Neither speak, nor move, just sit in a thick silence with Jon’s heart racing at a beat he wouldn’t have thought possible.

“Jon,” Robb starts to say. “I think –“

"We should go," Jon practically blurts out, moving backwards and out of Robb's hold just so he can breathe. If Robb is annoyed, he doesn't show it, just smiles at Jon with all teeth and eyes and pulls the both of them out of the booth. Jon's legs feel weak and he can't help but reach out to catch Robb's arm for support. "Damn whiskey," he mutters and Robb puts an arm around his waist. 

It's not the whiskey and he knows it. 

"This is why you don't drink on an empty stomach." 

"That's not my fault," Jon exclaims almost too loudly. "You promised to feed me." 

Robb laughs. "I did, I did. Maybe it was just my plan to get you drunk." 

They step out onto the street and Jon is bristled by the cold, wondering why he didn't bring his coat with him and moves to rest his head on Robb's shoulder. They stand beneath the light above the door of the pub, casting them in a canvas of sharp light and shadows. So much has changed, Jon thinks, and so much is yet to change still. Jon finds himself here, on a cool, Saturday night in the presence of a man who has the power to change him, to truly change him, covered in the security of a flickering light and a quiet town and he can't figure out what that means. Not yet. 

Robb's hand cards through Jon's curls, tugging gently through knots and Jon almost curses himself when a soft, content moan breaks through his lips.

"Sorry," Jon says quickly, lifting his head. "That was embarrassing. I'm just tired." 

"It's fine, Jon." 

"You're great." 

Robb dips his head to stare at the ground, and Jon can't stand not seeing his face. "So," he says, clearing his voice and itching to reach for the other man's jaw, his chin, cheek, anything. "Can you feed me, now?"

Robb says nothing, simply smirks and throws an arm around Jon's shoulder, walking them down the street and into the shadows. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post again so quickly but I've been so delightfully overwhelmed with everyone's beautifully kind words that I couldn't help myself. 
> 
> I found myself changing so much of this chapter from what I had originally written. Granted, it was written three years ago so I am bound to want to tear my own writing apart. Not that any of you will know the changes of course, lmao, but, I hope this makes you happy. 
> 
> Lots of love and appreciation <3 Everyone's feedback is literally making my life.

Jon feels as if he is dying. Honestly, what a terribly melodramatic thing to say. The thing is, Jon has never been a particularly melodramatic person. As a boy, a teenager, even at university and onward, Jon was seen as being quite, well, boring. Jon was  _okay_  with that, he truly was, but it didn’t stop him from finding a moment to indulge the side of him that was perhaps too... theatrical? His mother would say it was theatrical. 

Boring. To use such a word as an adjective to someone’s personality seems potentially cruel, but if anything, Jon prescribed that on himself. He wasn’t particularly funny, not particularly engaging, not willing to act on impulse or to live recklessly; he’d been told that before. Ygritte used to tell him this, often. Far too often. 

So why did Robb make him feel so  _unique_? 

Jon opens his eyes, slowly, testing them against the light. They’re half open and heavy, his eyelashes fluttering once, twice, against his skin. He coughs and his throat scratches, causing the sound to err on the side of a groan. A thin line of light falls across his face, the slight gap in the curtain offending him greatly as it dances on his skin. Jon shifts until the affronting beam is out of his sight, burrowing his head deeper into unfamiliar pillows and a duvet around his shoulders he doesn't recognise the smell of. 

Like the rush of water to sand on the beaches of Dorset his mother used to take him to, memories from the night before hit Jon. The pub, Robb, the whiskey, twined ankles and pressed shoulders atop the kitchen counter,  _Robb_. 

The heels of his palms find his eyes, pressing and pushing so hard it causes stars to dance behind his vision. He revels in them, the stars, pressing to the point of pain. He breathes, once, twice, deeply and gently. Part of him feels like he might be sick, his stomach flipping uncomfortably. 

When he removes his hands from his eyes it takes a moment to adjust. The stars blur with the muted, morning light that rests across the room; a muddy puddle of colours. He turns his head and his thankful to see his phone sitting on the bedside table, less thankful that his clothes sit in a heap of the floor and he’s conscious of his naked skin brushing against soft, cotton sheets. Jon may have been slightly inebriated, but he’s fairly confident that he was alone for that. Hopefully. Maybe. 

The time on his phone that stares at him far too brightly tells him that it is still early, likely meaning the house will be quiet and sleeping for a little while longer. The solitude feels nice, some modicum of peace in the way his heart rattles uncomfortably in his chest. The motion barely registers when Jon presses  _c_ _all_  on the most recent contact on his list, his eyes still squinting against the harsh, electronic light. 

_"Hello?"_

Jon releases a breath, heavy and long. The voice of his best friend does much to the rattle of his heart. 

_"Jon? What's wrong? Is everything okay?"_

He can’t help but smile, touched, as always, by his friends concern. 

“Sam,” he says, with much relief. “It’s good to hear your voice.” 

_“What’s wrong? Something’s wrong, it’s eight a.m. and you hate speaking on the phone.”_

Jon pictures Sam moving about the kitchen of his small, Yorkshire flat. He can see the way the sun would be filtering through the double glazed windows, bouncing against the cherry red of the cupboards Sam's girlfriend, Gilly, had once painted. In all fairness, they used to be an awful shade of yellow. Sam would already have the kettle on, Jon is sure of it. 

“What are you doing?” Jon asks, as if Sam hadn’t asked him a single question. 

_“Making tea for Gilly. Can you not evade my questions, please?”_

Jon’s lips twitch. “Sorry,” he tries. “I just - I needed to hear your voice.” 

_"Oh god. What happened? Was the family a bunch of psychopaths? I can come pick you up from London, just give me a few hours to drive down and I can -"_

"No, no, that's not it at all."

_"So... It was good?"_

"Yeah," Jon says, pulling the duvet up over his face to hide in the dark. "Really good. They're great."

_"Jon, are you hungover?"_

"You know me well." 

_"I can always tell when you're hungover. You’re even more mopey than usual.”_

Jon would be offended but he doesn’t have the energy. 

_“You went out drinking with your new siblings?”_

"Yeah, I guess. Well, just one of my siblings." Gods, Jon won’t ever get used to it, he’s sure.

_"Tell me about it. Something's clearly bothering you."_

So Jon does. Despite better judgement, he does. 

He tells Sam everything. About the town, about the house and how he hated feeling so oddly at home. He tells him about the meeting and where he stood with the company, about what that meant for his future. He tries not to let his voice catch when talking about how he’ll be leaving the North. He tells him about Arya and Sansa and Robb, Gods, does he tell him about Robb. 

He talks about the pub, about the whiskey and Robb's smile. He talks about walking back to the house, about how Robb never took his arm off him and how they sat on the counter in the kitchen eating sandwiches with their ankles twisted together and telling stories from their childhood. He can’t keep the smile out his voice when he does it, particularly when he retells the story of how Robb spent almost three months of his life pretending he was a knight when he was six. 

His voice feels dry by the time he’s done, too many words said too quickly and without thought. He trusts Sam, though, even if he doesn’t quite trust himself. 

_“Woah,"_ Sam says when Jon is finished, the silence on the receiver dragging on so long that Jon would be convinced Sam hung up if it weren't for his soft breathing. 

_“Jon...”_ There is so much question in one syllable it draws a heaviness over Jon like a quilt left in the rain. 

“Don’t, yeah?” 

_“I didn’t say anything.”_

“I know, but you want to.” 

_“Yes, I do.”_

It’s Jon’s fault, that’s the problem. That’s what he tells himself when Sam starts speaking; all he did was bring this upon himself. If he wasn’t seeking advice and support he should have kept his mouth shut. 

_“Look,”_  Sam starts,  _“this is okay. I am very happy for you. Are you happy?”_

“Sam...”

_“No, no, I must speak my mind.”_

Jon breathes. “Fine.” 

_“I am very happy for you. I can hear it in your voice. You don’t need to answer, because I can hear it, Jon. You’ve been so unhappy for so long and I hate it. You know what? I hate it. I haven’t really told you that before, because I thought maybe you were content, with your loneliness but, I hear it now. That’s never what you wanted. You’ve been searching for that missing piece, yeah? You’ve found it. I can tell.”_

Jon hurts. There’s so other way to describe it. It’s all too much too soon. 

“Sam, come on. I barely  _know_  them.” 

_“You know Robb.”_

There’s a pause. It drags on so long Jon can hear the seconds tick past. 

“What are you saying?” 

_“You know what I’m saying.”_

Jon doesn’t realise he’s been clenching his fist so tightly until his knuckles crack. It catches him off guard, just for a second. 

“I should probably go. My phone is about to die.” 

_“Jon, no -"_

“I don’t think I can -"

_“You know I love you, right? You’re my_ best _friend, Jon. My very best friend and I will always love you. You have stood up for me more times than I can even begin to count and I will stand up for you now. You deserve this happiness. I know that what you’re thinking is wrong and maybe it’s not right but, I will always be here for you. No matter what.”_

Jon loves Sam, truly. He doesn’t deserve such a friend. Such an honest, loyal, true friend. Sam should hate him, should have kicked him out long ago but he stays. He always stays. 

“Sam,” he tries, but his voice gets caught. It comes out all wrong. “Can I come over? When I get back?” 

_“Yes, of course. You are welcome in my house any time.”_

“This doesn’t change anything, okay? Me moving. You’ll always be my best friend, Sam.” 

_“I wouldn’t let it change, even if you wanted it to.”_

Jon smiles, even though he knows Sam can’t see him. “Thanks. Thanks for everything.” 

_“Always.”_

***

Jon feels normalcy slowly seep it’s way back into his bones once he takes a shower. He lets the hot, almost scalding, water untie the tension in his bones until he’s left feeling like melted clay. Soft and malleable. He’s under the water for what feels like hours, but the reality only boils down to a collection of minutes. Perhaps, what he truly wishes for, is to melt under the stream and wash away down the drain. Perhaps that would make more sense than how he currently feels. Jon doesn’t even know if he could categorise how he feels; there’s hardly a label for it. 

Jon gets dressed slowly, letting his fingers run over soft  fabrics that are folded neatly in rows in the dresser of his room. The cold that bleeds through his toes draws him to the cable knit sweater, the colour of deep navy and thicker than he could have anticipated. It is perhaps a size too large but it practically hugs him, warming him from the inside out. It feels rather ridiculous to pair it with white sport socks tucked into grey sweat pants, yet, it makes him feel like the walking epitome of comfort. Maybe that is telling, that he feels so comfortable with this family. His family.

When Jon emerges from his room, he follows the sound of travelling voices, walking down the stairs one step at a time and holding onto the banister to stop himself from falling. He’s never drinking again and that statement in itself is a testament to how easily he will lie to himself. 

He follows the voices to the kitchen, walking into the room to find Arya and Bran at the table and Robb at the stove. It’s a comfortable room, much like the rest of the house. It’s what Jon would imagine a country kitchen to look like, with large oak furniture that holds plates and mugs like the ones his grandma had. The sun from the East streams gently into the room, almost catching the edge of Robb’s face. 

Jon can’t stand it, to see Robb like this in the light of day. He is wearing nothing but a pair of sweats and an old faded university sweat shirt, all grey and soft. An urge that overwhelms him, almost consumes him, is to touch Robb; to wrap his arms around the man from behind, to bury his face into the crook of his neck and stay there. To stay there and simply breathe. The thought is terrifying. 

“Ahh there he is! Sleeping beauty has awoken!” Arya’s voice is loud and distracting, making him wince and his head pound.

“You were right, Robb,” she laughs, “he is totally hungover.”

Like a cat distracted by loud noise Robb turns to face him. His eyes drag across Jon’s frame, his lips quirking in the smallest of smiles at the pants tucked into ankle high socks. 

“Hey,” Jon mumbles, his voice not yet quite right. He stands rooted in the door way, dead phone in one hand and the other lightly scratching his beard. “What’s the time?"

“Nine thirty.” Robb turns back to the stove and Jon lets out a breath. “Take a seat, I made a breakfast.” 

Jon does what he’s told, almost too quickly. He takes a seat next to Arya, the sun streaming through brightly from the floor to ceiling windows. The view outside is positively charming, looking out to rolling green hills and lush countryside, but Jon finds himself resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands. 

“Hi,” he says instead, smiling at the younger Stark that sits across from him. “You must be Bran.” 

Bran lights up, he had before been staring almost cautiously at Jon, as if he were unsure how to approach the strange man now sitting in his family home. “Hi, hello,” he says quickly, “it’s nice to meet you.” 

Jon smiles at the gentle tone of his voice. “Likewise.”

They make small talk after that. Jon asks Bran about school, about the classes he takes and his friends. Bran is polite and kind, answering all of Jon’s questions and asking many of his own in return. Meanwhile Robb slides into the seat next to Jon’s, placing a mouth-watering plate of toast topped with almost a mountain of scrambled eggs in front of him. He touches his shoulder quickly but gently, as if he’s barely conscious he’s even done it. Jon puts all of his focus on Bran and Arya, getting to know them more with their mouths full of food and coffee. 

Robb doesn’t say a word. He sits next to Jon, close enough that Jon can smell his shampoo and it drives him mad. 

"Hey Jon?" Bran pipes up with a mouth full of toast, "Robb tells me you're an accountant?" 

Jon nods and Bran’s eyes go bright. "Do you reckon you could help me with my maths homework? I suck." 

"Sure," Jon says before he thinks, smiling softly when Bran cheers in delight and jumps up to say he'll go grab it. "But, can it wait until a bit later? My head is splitting."  
  
"I suppose," Bran says with an exasperated sigh, sitting back down and stabbing a piece of egg with far too much force. "I bloody hate maths."

"Nah, maths isn't too bad,” Jon shrugs, amused. “It's all just working out the formulas to get the answer. Like, if you think about it logically, if you learn how to work it out, you'll always get your answer. Just have to put a bit of time into it... To get what you want."   
  
Robb clears his throat and Jon turns to look at him, their eyes catching one another in a steely gaze that Jon doesn't understand. Robb's lips are gentle, soft, parted slightly and redder than Jon had noticed the night before. Here, in the light of day, Jon sees the way the sun makes Robb's hair looks almost Amber and he wants to run his fingers through the soft curls. He tries to imagine that life again; that life where he grew up with Robb by his side. Jon pictures a life where all his Sunday mornings were like this; with Robb and coffee and oversized woollen jumpers. It makes Jon sick to think this, when all he can really think about is Sunday mornings with Robb and coffee and sex.

"What are you two doing?" 

Both men turn to face Arya and Jon wants nothing more than the ground to reach up its claws and swallow him whole. The young girl is staring them both down with an eyebrow raised, confusion written across every inch of her pretty features. 

"Nothing," Robb says, standing from the table to turn away from the others and pour himself another cup of coffee. "Jon, I should drive you back now." 

"Okay," Jon says. It’s all he can say.

***

They spend the ride back to London mostly in silence. 

Truthfully, Jon feels rather ridiculous sitting in such a nice car in sweats and a jumper but Robb is hardly dressed any different. At least Robb had lent him a pair of trainers; the Chelsea boots he wore yesterday may have been a touch gauche. Robb's car is about as ostentatious as Jon expected to be; a sleek, black Jaguar that glides through the streets like lightening with a soft purr beneath the engine.

For someone he felt so instantly comfortable with, Jon had never felt at such a loss for words in a very long time. All he can do is sink deep into the leather and let his eyes follow the blur of the scenery as it raced passed the window. It hardly made sense, but, Jon felt as if Robb were  _angry_ with him, which, even in his head sounded ridiculous. Yet, with silence bordering on uncomfortable and Robb's knuckles stretched so tight against the steering wheel they were turning white, what was Jon meant to think?

Jon let his mind drift over the past twenty-four hours and tried to categorise it into boxes that made sense. He was reminded of when Baelish first gave him all that paperwork, when he tried to organise it on his kitchen table and inevitably let it all consume him. Jon thinks of the letter, Ned's letter and wonders if Robb knows. Or, how much of it he knows. The kindest and the warmth that Robb had already shown him seemed so unfounded and strange and yet, Jon felt like the matter between them was as natural as breathing. Nothing about Robb was disingenuous and nothing felt  _wrong_  but it should. Robb should hate him. 

That flows through Jon's mind like a mantra. It swims there. 

Jon thinks of Bran, he thinks of Arya, the way they had smiled at him and expressed they were looking forward to having him in their lives. It was disconcerting, really, how much love this family had already shown him. He was hardly sure he deserved it. 

Robb finally speaks when they're past the outskirts of London, speaking so sharp and so quick that Jon jumps ever so slightly in his seat. 

"Stop it," he says, grinding his teeth. "Stop wallowing."

It's enough to make Jon want to laugh. "Wallowing? You're the one wallowing, mate." 

Robb's eyes flicker between Jon and the road, his lips held in a tight line mixed between amusement an disdain. "I don't wallow." 

"Angry, then. Stop being so angry." 

Robb's face is caught in surprise and confusion, his mouth opening once, twice, before he's deciding on what words to choose in response. "Angry," he says, not as a question and mostly to himself. "Interesting." 

"So, you're not angry?"

"Why would I be angry?" 

Jon's answering sigh is exasperated and terse. "You're so confusing." 

"What do you want from me, Jon?" 

It's a loaded question, Jon can't deny that. Dozens of answers come bubbling up on the edge of Jon's tongue, each as absurd as the last. 

_"Nothing"_ , he could say. Lie. 

_"To be friends,"_ he could also reply. A partial lie. 

_"Everything you will allow me."_

"I want us to get along," he settles on. "I want to make you happy." He most definitely didn't need nor mean to say the last part. He could curse himself, honestly. He has half a mind to open the door whilst the car still moves and let physics do the rest. 

Jon would explain himself, he would, but Robb doesn't give him the chance.

"You don't need to make me happy, Jon." 

"You deserve it though," Jon says suddenly. Does he even mean that? Yes, surely. Jon doesn't particularly fashion himself as a sociopath so of course, of  _course,_ he wishes happiness upon Robb. But it's hard to think in a context that doesn't sit uncomfortably. Happiness, or, the happiness of others, should come naturally but in this instance it doesn't. He finds himself wanting a happiness for Robb in which he is at the centre. 

He's going to lose his mind. 

"I can't believe we're doing this to you," Robb says, his voice practically seething. 

"Doing what?"

"Making you change your whole life. We've barely - we barely considered what that means for you, Jon.  _I_ barely considered it. I just - I was, I am, so caught up in -"

Robb stops and Jon stares. "Caught up in what?" 

"You. My father. The company. All of it!" Robb's palm hits the steering wheel in a dull thud. "You don't have to be doing this Jon, you know that, right? You can say no, to all of this, you can walk away." 

Jon doesn't allow himself to even mull that over. Instead, he asks, "is that what you want, for me to walk away?"  
  
Robb's eyes leave the road, just for a second, but it's enough for Jon to see the hurt there. God, he's drowning in it. "No," he says gently, "not at all."   
  
"Then I won't."  
  
"It's not that easy, Jon. It's -"

"It is that easy, Robb."

"But -"

"I wasn't going to choose this, you know," Jon says. He resists the urge to snap. "I didn't want to. I was going to come to London, sign away my claims to the inheritance and leave without ever having met any of you."

Robb lets his fingers flex, the muscles in his hands tight. "So, why didn't you?"

"I met you."

They're on the outskirts of Brixton, so close now it won't be long until Jon recognises where he is and he can leave this. Leave Robb. 

He barely flinches, although the urge is strong, when Robb's fingers curl around his wrist. It's quick, gentle, and so small that all Robb would have to do is press his touch an inch harder and he would feel the flutter in Jon's pulse. Jon looks up and meets Robb's eyes, a moment longer than is safe with the city sprawled out in front of them. 

"This is mine," Robb almost whispers, his thumb lightly brushing over the material of the jumper Jon was so quick to fall in love with. "It looks good on you." 

"Robb -" Jon tries, but the words coming up short. Honestly, he hadn't even thought of the right words to say, barely could think of ones that would make sense. Instead, he does the only thing he thinks is right, knowing it's wrong. 

Jon turns his wrist so his palm faces upward and in the process, he takes Robb's hand in his own. 

"Jon -" 

Here, they find themselves at an impasse. Two men, in a car on a road that Jon has never been on, in a city he thought he despised. Two men who can't say anything, anything other than the name's they were each given. Here, maybe that is enough. Maybe this car, this road and this city, is enough. 

This, is enough. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can really say is, thank you. My eyes are very heavy and I worry my one a.m. editing isn't going to have done the trick.

It should hurt more, leaving. 

It should hurt but it doesn’t. Perhaps it does, Jon can’t be quite sure. Perhaps what he is mistaking for indifference is an ache that is evolved into a dullness. A soft ache of acceptance. Jon sits at the table in his old kitchen, with the scratched surface and uneven lines in the wood; he can’t do much else but stare at the wall. He notices the burn mark behind the stove, the one that was caused by a serious lack of understanding when it came to cooking with rum. That stain would most likely never go away, no matter how hard the new tenants scrubbed at it, but Jon would. Jon felt himself being scrubbed away from this house, this city, with each cold breath that drew into his lungs. 

Everything had been packed, everything sorted, neat and tidy boxes that were ready to be loaded into the back of Sam’s Volvo. He was due any minute now, inching closer and closer until Jon would have no choice but to stand up, from this chair and this house and say goodbye. 

Goodbye. The world rolls around in Jon’s mouth like candy. Was it good? It was certainly a farewell, it was certainly a case of saying _bye_ , but was it good? Jon’s sadness and hurt, tucked neatly inside him to the size of no more than an envelope, couldn’t quite comprehend if this was _good_. He would miss home, that much is true and he would miss everything about his life that was _easy_. He would miss getting the same bus to work, every morning at eight a.m. and running through the front doors of his office floor to see Diane, the receptionists, face peering at his disapprovingly behind her second cup of tea. Whilst he may have never truly made friends or felt like he was in the role of his dreams, Jon would miss his job.  But maybe that was because it was easy. 

Easy was staying in Leeds. Easy was keeping his job at the bank and drinking larger with Sam on a Friday night. It was watching the same reruns of the same sitcoms on the same TV and not bothering to even change the channel. It was shopping at the same Tesco, the one just round the corner on Burnley Road and always being served by the same, short, round woman; Doreen. Doreen loved him. 

It’s odd, to spare a thought for the woman who scans his milk at Tesco and wonder if she will spare a thought for him. _Where’s that boy with the curly hair gone?_ she might think one day. Maybe she won’t think anything at all. 

The thing is though, and the thing that Jon reminds himself, is that Doreen isn’t going anywhere. Doreen will continue to scan milk and bread and eggs on her Saturday afternoon shift and larger will still be poured at the pub on a Friday night. The same reruns of the same sitcoms will continue to play at their designated time and _nothing_ will leave where it’s meant to be; only Jon. 

Maybe that’s okay. 

Life wasn’t meant to be easy. If it were, no one would ever achieve anything, surely. Maybe Petyr Baelish was right, maybe it was time to finally _become_ something. A life with the Starks in London seemed - if albeit frightening - the chance to do this; to become this.

Jon hadn’t seen any of the Starks since he left their home in the Cotswolds three weeks ago. Well, if one didn’t include saying goodbye to Robb on a street corner in Brixton. Which Jon didn’t. 

Arya had reached out a few times, demanding why he was barely on any form of social media and simply _insisting_ she was going to help him set up an Instagram account when he moved down. They had argued for roughly twenty minutes about what possible use Jon could have with such an app. It was nice, to build something akin to friendship with the younger girl. Jon imagines the feeling of having a sibling is the one he already feels with Arya. Warm, safe, funny and irritating all at once. Even Bran had reached out, too, texting Jon to ask if it was okay if he called and discussed the theory behind algebra. Jon had then spent almost the next forty-five minutes explaining to Bran exactly what polynomials were at his desk, finding it much more thrilling than the handover report he had been due to write. 

Jon hadn’t heard from Robb. 

That, in itself, wasn't exactly surprising.

Things between he and Robb were left... unsure. Uneasy. Unspoken. Jon can open his palm and still feel Robb's fingers there. If he wanted (yet, he doesn't), he could run his fingers over that palm, tracing the lines and feeling the shadow Robb had left. Almost as quickly as Jon had taken Robb's hand, Robb had released it. Admittedly, he had needed to take the wheel with both hands as he turned the corner, too tight to control in one hand; that's what Jon tells himself anyway. It makes him feel better to think that it had been a fleeting thing, a quick moment of comfort between new brothers forging their bond of blood. A quick moment to say thank you, to say, _it's okay._ Reassurance, that was the word that had been evading Jon's mind. He was reassuring Robb, and maybe himself, that everything was going to be okay.

The timing of Robb's arrival at Jon's hotel that morning had been impeccable, barely a spare moment to unbox and acknowledge what had happened. If anything even had happened, for that matter.

 _"Thank you,"_ Jon had said, reaching over to the back seat to collect his limited belongings. _"I'll return the clothes."_

 _"Keep them,"_ Robb had been smiling when he said it, staring intently at Jon and throwing him off guard.

Jon hadn't said much after that, merely muttered more words of thanks and a completely non committal, _"see you soon."_

Perhaps it were rude, but Jon had climbed out of the car and closed the door behind him with a thud before he could hear Robb's reply.

Jon hadn't bothered to wait on the curb to watch Robb drive away.

Jon hadn't heard from Robb and he didn't blame him.

Jon could have reached out, too.

He had been contacted by other members of the company, offering their congratulations and introductions, as well as any information he would need for his first few weeks. Jon knew where he need to go, what he needed to do and who he needed to see; this wasn't the problem. The problem was, in essence it was a real _issue,_ that Jon felt almost positively sick at the thought of seeing Robb. Maybe it was the concept of nervousness, that Robb made him nervous beyond belief. Which felt ridiculous to think, at twenty-seven years old, being made to feel _nervous_ by another grown man. Jon wasn't in high school.

Ygritte used to make him feel nervous.

It was how she used to smile at him. Something always eerily sinister about it. _"I love you, Jon Snow,"_ she would say; _leave me, and I'll kill you,_ is what her eyes and teeth mimed.

Robb's smile wasn't like that. Robb's smile was warm and genuine, flooding Jon's veins when it was directed at him. Maybe that, in turn, was equally as nerve-racking.

The knock on the front door breaks Jon from his retrieve.

Sam's smiling face greets him on the doorstep. A different smile, completely different and not at all nerve inducing.

"Ready to go?" He asks, not realising how much weight rests on those words.

Yes, Jon supposes he is ready. As ready as one could ever be.

*******

Jon appreciates being given a house, he really does, but he curses the Starks and what they deem practical when he is running from the tube station toward Winterfell Industries. Whom ever decided to purchase the house in South Kensington when the office was in Whitechapel needed to be forced to make the Underground trip. Jon wasn't sure he would ever be able to get used to London peak house, nor would be ever enjoy being shoved, pushed and flattened on the tube.

He takes the stairs at Bank Station two at a time, hating that he has joined the clan of suit wearers with their leather loafers, having to push past those they deem slower and lesser than themselves. Maybe Jon won't _exactly_ put himself in that strain, but he can't help but become easily infuriated by those who get caught up looking down at the mobile phones rather than in front of them.

He doesn’t have time to appreciate Winterfell Industries from the outside as much as he would like; only stopping quick enough to double check he was even in the right place. The building is large and imposingly grey, almost all the surfaces both internally and externally a smooth, dark stone. The heels of his shoes _tap_ against the stone floors, the speed of his gait instantly noticeable as panic. The front desk of the ground floor is long, stretching the span of half the floor and looks as if it's almost pure, smooth concrete. The words _Winterfell Industries_ are blazoned in silver in the top right hand corner, subtle and elegant. Jon approaches with mild trepidation, clearing his throat involuntarily as a way of greeting.

“Good morning, welcome to Winterfell,” one of the girls behind the desk smiles at him kindly, immediately catching his attention. Her white suit is a stark contrast to the grey that surrounds her and she is beautiful, Jon can’t begin to deny that. Her soft brown hair, that has hints of strawberry, flows down the length of her back, braided gently off her face and she has brown eyes with flecks of gold that appear brighter than the sun _._  

“Ah, hi,” Jon smiles in return, running the back of his hand across his forehead in hopes he didn't perspire as he was practically running through the streets of the city. That would be mildly traumatising.

“What can I help you with today, sir?”

“My name is Jon Snow? I’m here to help... run the company?” He laughs uncomfortably, not thinking of a way he could have said it any more poetically and the beautiful girls’ eyes go wide, almost like those of a doe. 

“Mr Snow!” She exclaims, jumping from her chair to briskly walk to Jon’s side in front of the desk. She extends out a hand, her touch soft and warm and her eyelashes fanning. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, we’re so happy to have you here with us at Winterfell.”

“Thank you,” Jon says, unsure what to do with himself as she continues to smile at him with large white teeth and lips the same colour as summer cherries.

“Please, let me show you upstairs.” She begins to walk towards the lifts, her stride strong and confident and Jon unable to look away. She offers to take his coat when they step inside the lift but Jon declines almost profusely.

“There are twenty-four floors at Winterfell,” she explains as they go up. “They all do their own thing, really, but you’ll learn that in good time. I won't bore you with all the departments. You will be working on the top floor, with Mr Stark and the other executives.”

Jon nods whilst she begins to talk about the company, her voice beautiful and melodious and filling every corner of the small space that confines them. She laughs at one point, reaching out to touch Jon’s elbow and Jon feels himself blush like a school boy. He feels as if he is positively starved of human affection; that's what he tells himself.

“Of course, we were so devastated when the late Mr Stark died,” she says when the doors open to the top floor. He follows her out and he can’t help but notice how sincere the sadness is on her face. “He will be missed.”

It hits Jon, in that moment standing by the lifts, that the companies receptionist knew his father better than he ever did.  “Yeah,” is all Jon can say, all other words in his vocabulary seemingly leaving him.

She doesn’t say anything further on the subject, simply smiles sadly and beckons him to follow her down the hallway. The theme of marble and grey upholds on the top floor, with private offices made of fogged glass lining the outer walls of the floor. Desks are scattered sparsely around the open plan space and a few kind faces raise their gaze to meet his. Jon finds himself wanting to stop and say hello, to introduce himself and not feel so deeply alone, but the beautiful girl with green eyes (who Jon could kick himself for not asking her name) ushers him down the hall . When they reach the office at the end of the hall, Jon isn’t sure he is prepared, but he doesn’t have a choice when the receptionist knocks lightly on the glass door.

“Come in,” Robb’s voice sounds through the door and Jon’s heart begins to hammer.

Jon hangs back when she pushes the glass open. “Mr Stark,” Jon can hear the smile in her voice, “I have Jon Snow here for you.”

Jon can’t see anything beyond the side of the woman's face, which makes the silence that follows so incredibly painful.

“Shall I send him in?” She asks nervously, hovering in the door way.

“Sorry, yes please.”

She beams at Jon, extending her hand out in front of her and Jon has no choice now. Did he ever have a choice?

Robb’s office is large and imposing (Gods, one entire wall is floor to ceiling glass with a view of London), yet oddly different to what Jon was expecting. It’s more homely than he would have thought, with more oak than stone, walls that are lined with books and deep leather couches that sit in odd places across the room. Jon finds himself wondering if Robb chose for it to be this way or if this was Ned’s design. A question for another day, perhaps.

Robb sits behind the grand desk that is placed before the wall of glass, the piece of furniture looking as if it could have come straight from the eighteenth Century. Well, if it weren’t for an incredibly big computer sitting in the middle. He looks up, but his eyes go straight pass Jon to rest on the stunning girl who still stands in the door. “Thank you, Margaery,” he says fondly, “that will be all.”

“No worries, have fun you two!”

With a swish of her hair and a click of her heel, she is gone and they are alone.

Robb’s gaze drops back down to the papers on his desk, scribbling out some notes quickly with a furrow in his brow and a strain on his jaw. Neither of them speak, for what feels like hours, and all Jon can do is stand in the centre of the room and resist the urge to want to jump out the window.

As the seconds tick by, Jon feels his anger start to rise. It begins to bubble up in his chest and threaten to spill. Jon may not have known Robb long and it is feasible that they had not built any relationship of which to speak of but it didn't stop Jon from feeling like he was being completely and utterly _ignored._ It were as if Robb had decided to act like a child, acting completely on impulse and playing a game of silence that Jon wanted to no part of. His mouth is so close to opening, his words so close to being snapped, when Robb speaks.

“Hi,” he says, looking up from his papers and books and almost knocking Jon over with the force of it. His eyes are sad, Gods, so sad that it takes everything in Jon not to cross the room in two strides and sweep Robb up in his arms. The thought is fanciful and wonderful and Jon wants to dip his head at the idea.

“Hi,” he says instead, the word leaving him in one gush of breath. “How are you?”

“Take a seat.”

Jon does as he’s told, taking the large leather arm chair that sits directly opposite Robb and hating how close they are yet not at all.

“Jon,” Robb says gently, leaning forward in his chair and not letting their eyes leave one another. They're bluer than Jon had remembered, Robb's eyes, that is. “I have missed you.”

Jon opens his mouth and shuts it again immediately. What was one meant to begin to say to that?

“Robb,” he settles on, “I’m sorry if I ever did anything that -"

"Don't," Robb interrupts quickly, his head shaking slightly. "There is nothing to apologise for. I feel I should be the one to apologise, I have been remiss in my duties as CEO, I should have contacted you before today. I'm sorry."

Jon frowns. "What?" He says, but quickly amends himself. "No, that's not - that's fine."

"I do hope everything was okay with the house?"

"Yes, the house is fine. Thank you."

"That's good."

The silence between them is so heavy Jon might start to choke on it if he's not careful. He can play Robb's game, however. It is, after all, an easy one. The game of misdirection.

“Jon.” Robb’s lips twitch into the smallest of grins and it feels fair to take that as some sort of victory. “We good?” he asks.

A beat. "We're good." Jon will spare Robb from feeling like he has to say anything else. "I like your office," he says.

“Thanks, do you want to see yours?”

“I get my own office?”

 “Of course, unless you want me to just drag a desk in here with me?” Robb laughs and Jon can’t deny it’s not the worst idea he’s ever heard.

“You can give me a tour later, but for now, where do we begin?”

Robb leans back in his chair, resting his chin in his palm. “That is a good question. I’m torn between either getting you to meet the exec’s, introducing you to the different departments or perhaps just keeping you in here all day for myself.”

The worst part is, Jon’s not entirely sure that Robb is joking.

“Well, I don’t really mind,” Jon half heartedly laughs. “I won’t lie, I’m already slightly overwhelmed.”

Robb smirks. “I can tell.”

“Is everyone who works for this company going to be super attractive?" Jon tries to joke, nodding his head at the door where Margaery had left through not minutes before.

Robb’s eyes dance with a dark humour, something that Jon can’t place. Jon's also currently dealing with the dilemma that, that was potentially, extremely unprofessional.

“Don’t even think about it,” Robb says, the smirk still playing there. “Remember how I told you about Sansa’s girlfriend?”

Margaery. _Margaery._ Now the name is on his tongue he feels foolish for not realising it sooner. It was hardly a common name.

Robb starts laughing and can seemingly not stop. It's rather lovely, really, if Jon is allowed to think that. He's plagued with too many things happening at one time in his mind. “Mate,” Robb tries to get out, “your face.”

“That is Sansa’s girlfriend?” Jon is still trying to wrap his head around it. “ _That_ is Sansa’s girlfriend.”

“Yes Jon,” Robb says with laughter still colouring his tone. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Sansa."

“I’m not - I don't want, I - ” Jon tries, fumbling at almost an alarming level. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I imagine my reaction was much the same. Yet, now it's blurred into a hazy level of acceptance. It's hard to acknowledge your sister dating quite possibly the most beautiful woman in the city." He laughs and Jon tries to join him. "I'm joking, of course."

Jon's laugh falters and it's almost impossible for Robb not to notice. The moment becomes something awkward and tangible, something Jon doesn't like. He should try say something, anything, talk about the weather or football or what Robb had for breakfast but he chooses to look down at his hands instead.

Robb sighs, tapping his fingers against the desk. "Anyway," he tries, and Jon can't bring himself to look up. Not yet. "Let's get to work."

*******

Jon feels like he is treading water for the next two months. Everything is so different,  _so_ different, and each day hurls some new challenge at him that he doesn’t feel equipped enough to attempt. The company isn’t too bad; honestly he lets Robb do most of the work, more taking an assistance role than actually doing much himself. Robb blesses Jon for his love of numbers, buddying him up with the head of accounting, Mr Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion is nothing like any accountant Jon has ever had the pleasure of working with (which is honestly a breath of fresh air). Tyrion is loud, rude, obnoxious and dry and his whit is so quick that sometimes Jon can’t even catch up. Tyrion is the only one in the whole damn place that doesn’t coddle Jon, as he had told him from day one, “ _Ned was a genius, I have faith that he knew what he was doing when he sent you here. Don’t disappoint me.”_ And Jon has never gotten along quicker with anyone in the whole building. Well, except maybe Robb.

Jon still panics almost every time he looks at his bank account balance, not yet used to the large sum of money (more than Jon has ever, ever owned his life) that sits there and often wonders what to do with it. His house still feels foreign and empty to him, but Sam has visited three weeks out of the eight and that… helps. Mostly, Jon can accept all this. The new job, the new house, new clothes and a new city, but the thing he is by far coming to terms with the most, is having a family. The Starks accept him like he is one of their own, leaving no room for argument as they shove him into their lives.

It has been over a month and Jon still hasn’t met Catelyn Stark. Jon had started going round to Robb’s house in Hampstead Heath for dinner every Sunday with the rest of the Stark’s, the lot of them spread out on the carpet of the living room often with a pack of cards, scrabble or heaven forbid the time they chose Monopoly (never again). Robb cooks for them all, which still surprises Jon, each week coming up with a different culinary masterpiece that never ceases to amaze. Every week, the three younger Stark’s (who still live with their mother) apologise for why Catelyn won’t be joining them, each excuse more elaborate than the last. Jon is too nice to say anything other than, “ _oh, doesn’t worry me at all,”_ or, “ _that’s a shame. Maybe next time.”_ It troubles Robb the most; Jon is starting to lose track of the amount of times he has walked into Robb’s office to find him arguing with his mother over the phone. “ _Jon is incredible, Mother,”_ Jon had heard him saying once, whilst Robb’s back was facing him. “ _He is important to me now and you can’t do this forever.”_

Jon had left the room, pretending he had never heard a single word.

With Jon's help, Bran began to start acing maths; the teenager practically bowled Jon over with a hug at one of their Sunday dinners after getting 92 on a test. He was helping Rickon now too, turning a great portion of Sunday evenings into tutoring sessions with both boys huddled up close to him on the couch with notebooks and concentrated brows. Arya started using Jon as her own personal diary after she had decided she trusted him completely. She would often call Jon up in the evening, to talk to him for hours about how she was stressed about university or endlessly about this boy she was (maybe) seeing called Gendry. Jon would always listen to her dutifully, offering advice when it was appropriate and always offering his shoulder when she needed it. On rare occasions, she would talk about Ned, her voice soft and small and confiding in Jon that sometimes she woke up in the middle of the night unable to breathe because she missed her dad so much. Jon’s heart broke on those occasions, as he was never sure what to say to Arya to help heal her wounds.

Sansa was always overly polite to Jon, but never particularly _nice,_ which was incredibly frustrating. Jon felt the shift in their relationship the day he walked in on her snogging Margaery in the tea room on the twenty-fourth floor at Winterfell. All Jon had wanted was a cup of tea, but instead he got to see Sansa backed up against the wall, Margaery's hands set firmly on her hips and the other girl's hands tangled in curled, impossibly long hair. When Jon had cleared his throat, almost comically loud, Sansa looked as if she'd been caught in the act of murder, as if the blood were still on her hands. She apologised to the point where it was almost painful and Margaery had simply smirked, apologising to Jon as he was technically her boss, but leaving the issue at that. Sansa had asked to talk to Jon privately the following Sunday at Robb’s, pulling him off into the empty dining room and expressing to him how horribly,  _horribly_ embarrassed she was. Jon had told her it was fine, seriously fine, and that he was happy for her, honestly and truly happy. His sister (a name he hadn't truly considered for the girl until that moment), pulled him into a hug so tight and so quick that Jon felt the warmth flood from her body to his own. Jon shared something with her now, he wasn't sure what but it was small and it was oddly special and he treasured it.

Robb... Robb was painful. Each day they grew impossibly closer, to the point where the memory of a life before Robb hurt. Robb became his best friend (besides Sam, of course) and Jon felt like he was permanently drowning for two months. The company? That was easy. He could figure that out, wade in slowly and use his knowledge and cleverness as a life raft, but Robb? That was diving head first into a river ruled by storm. Robb was a notorious flirt, which became apparent very quick. He would flirt, with everyone, it seemed; women, men, the shareholders and old ladies he gave up his seat to on the tube. Jon felt himself slipping into a madness that caused civil war between his head and heart. It became hard to look at Robb objectively, with each day edging closer to a conclusion that Jon wasn't sure he wanted to know, yet. Sometimes Robb would cook dinner for Jon and they would go to the supermarket together after work. It was all so disgustingly domesticated. Jon would ask what Robb felt like having for dinner and Robb would push Jon up against the tins of crushed, peeled and whole tomatoes and reply, _"you."_ Before Jon even knew what his reaction was, Robb was laughing at it.

Robb was cruel and there was a chance that Jon was falling in love with him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels so right, yet so wrong, to have ended the chapter there. More soon :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is a nice quick update because... you deserve it! I hope this makes up for any potential frustration I have been putting you through and I cannot thank everyone enough for their lovely, lovely comments!

Jon knows he’s staring. He knows he’s staring and he can’t find the will power strong enough to stop. Robb’s laughing, his head thrown back in a way that exposes the column of his throat. The skin there is smooth; the line between his light beard and neck is clean and concise. Jon could sink his teeth in.  

It's Thursday night, two weeks before Christmas and Jon is sprawled out across Robb's couch. His legs tangle with his brothers, both their backs up against opposite ends of the sofa and almost sliding down until they’re horizontal. Robb watches television and Jon pretends to read files and yet all he feels his Robb’s fingers curled absentmindedly around his ankle. This is a bad habit Jon needs to stop; staying over at Robb’s every other night, eating dinner from elegant china bowls in their sweats on the couch and streaming comedies on Netflix until it asks them if they’re still watching. 

“What are you thinking?” Robb asks, a touch too intense. Jon can feel the grip on his ankle tighten.

“The Baratheon account,” he answers quickly, nodding down at the amass of paper in his lap. 

Robb looks as if he hardly believes him. “And?”

"I think they would be a strong force to associate with the company. Their numbers in the stock market are on the up and up and they're already a powerful face in Britain's technology scene. I’m not an enormous fan of their CEO, Robert, but I know he was a good friend of Ned’s and he trusted him.”

Robb hums in approval, his mood swing almost giving Jon whiplash. “Good. My thoughts exactly. We'll schedule a meeting for Monday." His smile is dazzling and soft. "You're so smart."

Jon laughs, a sound that rumbles through him and must pass on into Robb. "I think I'm finally getting the hang of it." 

"Please, you got the hang of it after day one." 

“Hardly." 

“Don't argue with me, Snow." 

Jon’s hands find themselves grabbing the material of Robb’s sweats, fingers digging in just above his knees. Robb's eyes are dark and wide and Jon grins. "I'd still beat you in a fight." 

"Whatever," Robb grins back, sitting up from his position and out of Jon's hold. He moves to stand, Jon using the opportunity to stretch out and raise his arms above his head and pretend the muscles of Robb’s thighs weren’t just in his palms. The papers pool and fall over his thighs and the material of his jumper shifts up his body until the line of skin between jumper and trouser shows. Robb looks down on him and Jon watches the emotions play there, rolling like waves.

"Are you stressing about all the meetings next week?" He asks, the question seemingly rational but Robb almost scoffs. 

"Sure." 

It's an odd answer, but Jon doesn't question it. 

He's about to speak again, mouth already open and tongue formulating words when Robb practically pounces. Before Jon knows what is going on, before he could even have an option to resist, Robb is on top of him. The older man is quick to grab Jon's wrists and keep them pinned above his head, both his legs encasing Jon's hips and making it impossible to move. If Jon stops breathing he probably doesn’t notice. He’d welcome it, to be honest. 

"Still think you could beat me in a fight?" Robb asks, and Jon stutters. 

"What?" 

Robb is smirking and he's so close that Jon can see specks of green in the crystal of his blue eyes. "I would kick your ass, Jon Snow." 

Before Jon can respond (if he even knew what it was he wanted to say) Robb lets go of his wrists. He moves until he's resting on Jon's thighs and Jon puts his elbows beneath him so he can sit up to raise an eyebrow at Robb. "You're so weird," Jon says, only moderately fondly, and he gets a smile that is all teeth in return. 

"So, you're going to spend Christmas with us, yeah?" 

Jon's not sure it's the best conversation to have with Robb sitting on top of him, but he won't complain. "Sure," he shrugs. "It's either that or be by myself."

"Don't make it sound too depressing."

"No, seriously, I would love to spend Christmas with you." 

Robb's lips are soft and Jon wants to grab him by the front of his shirt he still wears from work and pull him down on top of him. Jon had been complimenting the fashion choice of a pressed, white dress shirt and deep navy track pants all evening. He'd also wagered twenty quid if Robb wore the combination to the office tomorrow. Unlikely.

"Good," Robb says. "We'll drive to the country after work on Christmas Eve and then we can stay for however long we want. The whole family will be there, lots of new people for you to meet." 

Jon almost groans. "Great. I'm sure that won't be awful for me at all." 

"Oh shut up, you'll love it. We have a big Christmas party every Christmas Eve at the house and it will be fun, I promise. If its shit then we can get drunk by the river."  

"Okay sounds great. Sitting by a river in late December in England, we may as well go ice skating." 

Robb punches him lightly in the chest and Jon reaches out to grab his wrist. "I'll make it a nice Christmas," Robb says. "Don't worry." 

"Will your mum be there?" Jon asks, refusing to let his fingers release the skin they hold. 

Robb sighs, defeated before he's even begun. "Yes. I promise it will be okay. You don't have to see her, if you don't want." 

"And what about on Christmas Day? I don't want to ruin it for you all. Honestly Robb, I don't have to go. I know she won't want me there. I should probably go up North anyway, see Sam and -" 

"Stop," Robb interrupts, resting the hand that Jon almost holds on his brothers strong chest. "You're going to be there. No arguments." 

"But -" 

"No, I said ‘no arguments.’ You’re a member of this family now, Jon, whether you like it or not.” His fingers tangle in the soft wool beneath his palm. “I never expected it to be like this, when my dad first told me about your existence. I thought I was going to hate you, I really did, but you've made that impossible. Never thought I'd end up loving you." 

Jon feels as if his heart will burst. He knows that Robb doesn't mean it in the way Jon wishes he would, but Jon is willing to accept it. He will accept Robb's love in any way the other man is willing to give it. 

"Love you too," Jon says, trying to will his heart not to crack. "Who would have thought, if you had of told me just a few months ago that I would be spending Christmas with my _f_ _amily_..." 

Robb looks sad, positively distraught and Jon can't stand it. "Are you okay?" He asks gently, sitting up slowly so that Robb stays in his lap and the two can sit face to face. Jon is sure that it's most likely far too intimate but he is too far gone in Robb to care. 

"Yeah, just tired I think." 

"Oh," Jon murmurs. "Yeah, I should probably go." 

Robb speaks quickly. "No, don't. Stay." 

"Robb, I really shouldn't sleep _another_ night on this couch, I may as well just move in." 

Jon is joking but Robb eyes him seriously. "Well, why don't you?" 

"Because, well," Jon doesn't know what to say. "I have my own house? That you generously gave me." 

"Fuck that house, you hate it." 

"No, I don't hate it. I -" 

"Yes, it's a nice house, very grand and whatever but you haven't made it your home. This is your home, with me." 

Jon feels so _soft_. "It seems fine now, when I just eat your food and fall asleep on the couch, but you might hate me if we're roommates." 

"Please," Robb scoffs, "I highly doubt that. Besides, I'm hardly short on the room. Neither of us need to be living in two big houses, it's far more economical this way. 

"Economical," Jon laughs, "right. Great point. But you don't really have a second bedroom." 

"That is easily fixed. I have spare rooms that are currently either pretending to be offices or storage space. I can have a bed in there in an hour. Maybe not this hour, but another hour of your choosing. You can make it all homely and what not and it will be great. We can go to and from work together, cook dinner together, play video games whenever we want; you name it." 

"That is essentially what we already have been doing." 

"Exactly! It makes perfect sense. C'mon Jon, be my roommate." 

"Fine." 

Robb grins victoriously and Jon resists the urge to kiss him. "But I don't want to get in your way." 

"Oh shut up, as if you would ever. Now, are you going to stay tonight or not?" 

Jon considers another night on the couch, it's an extremely comfortable couch Jon can't argue that, but he is neglecting his own bed and part of him feels an overwhelming urge to be alone. "No no, I better sleep in peace whilst I still can."

Robb rolls his eyes and Jon realises Robb's wrist is still being held captive by his fingers. "Your loss," he sighs, "I would have made you eggs on toast in the morning." 

"Wow, eggs on toast, I definitely can't make that for myself." 

Robb punches his chest again and Jon falls back into the cushions with laughter playing on his lips. 

 

*******

 

Robb is far too excited about the snow that falls against the windscreen of the car as they pull up the driveway of the Stark country home on Christmas Eve. 

“You act like you’ve never seen snow before,” Jon murmurs and Robb clicks his tongue in return. 

“It usually never snows here on Christmas, it’s all just grey sludge.”

Jon could give Robb a list of reasons why snow isn’t so great, but its Christmas and he doesn’t want to be accused of being the Grinch. Besides, when the house comes into view, with ivy covered in white icy fluff and lights strung around the window sills, Jon can share some of Robb’s excitement. 

Christmas for Jon usually consisted of getting shit faced on Christmas Eve, getting dragged to Sam’s for Christmas lunch so he wasn’t alone and then going home to an empty house to sit in front of the fire and think about his mum. It was all horribly morbid, really, so Jon wasn’t exactly complaining about the change in plans this year. It had felt strange, to load up Robb’s car with overnight bags and presents for his family. Jon had never bought so many Christmas presents in his life and the thought of seeing their faces when they opened them was making him feel slightly light headed.

Robb had been horribly stressed about taking time off from the company, worried that one day away from the office would see them falling apart and falling behind. Jon had told him, almost multiple times, that everything was _fine_ but Robb had barely listened. He’d been standing at his desk with his tie loose and the first few buttons of his shirt open, holding papers in his hands and muttering to himself about numbers. Jon had been pestering him (or, lightly nudging) that they needed to leave to make it to the party in time and Robb had ignored him. Jon’s solution had been to step up behind Robb and wrap his arms around the older man, fisting one hand in his shirt and letting his chin rest in the crook of Robb’s neck. Robb had relaxed and tensed all at once, melting back into Jon’s hold until they were one entity and taking hold of the hand that clutched his shirt. Jon hadn’t thought much of it at the time, as he generally never did, simply let his warmth sink into Robb’s skin and try absorb some of the stress his brother was feeling.

Tyrion had walked in on them like that, coughing loudly to draw attention to himself as he hovered in the doorway. Jon had never moved away from someone quicker, muttering something about _“hurry up,”_ to Robb and giving a quick nod to Tyrion before he was practically running from the room. Jon may have acknowledged whatever this _thing_ was between them, but that didn’t mean he was willing for others to begin to understand or even accept it.

Robb pretended the whole thing had never happened. Which was typical, really.

When Robb and Jon walk into the house, the warmth and sound hits them both instantly as they step over the threshold; the party in full swing. Light fills every corner, Christmas lights strung from the banisters, ceiling and everywhere in between. Someone yells in the distance, someone screams excitedly and Jon can hear the thump of _Last Christmas_ by _Wham!_ coursing through the house.

They drop their things inside the door and Robb wastes no time in grabbing Jon by the elbow to drag him down the hall and towards the noise. They’ve barely even opened the door to the kitchen when four separate people shout, “ _Robb!”_ excitedly at the man’s presence.

His hand falls quickly from Jon’s arm and he leaves a second later, leaving Jon to stand there uncomfortably, unable to miss the way prying eyes look him up and down in interest. He knows what they must be thinking, “ _the infamous bastard.”_

“Jon!”

Jon sighs in relief when Arya comes bowling into his side, putting her arms around him and hugging him tightly.

“Missed you!” she says, taking his hand and pulling him from the kitchen and onlookers, but not before swiping two tumblers of rum that were pre poured in rows on the kitchen table.

“Missed you too, kid,” he smiles, wanting to laugh when she rolls her eyes at the nickname.

She shoves him down onto the couch in the living room, the same couch they first talked on the first time they met and it instantly provides some modicum of peace Jon felt like he was gasping for. She places the cool drink in his hand and takes a short sip from her own as she sits down, her feet are in his lap a moment later.

They sit in a comfortable silence, the fire burning loudly before them with a crack and pop and horrendous singing floating through from the kitchen. Jon looks into the flames, letting the amber calm him the best it can with its relentless snap. His heart snaps too, telling him to relax and breathe. Just breathe. 

“What is it?" Arya asks gently, pressing the pad of her foot into Jon's thigh to claim his attention.

Jon's instinct is to question her, to laugh her concern off as ‘nothing’ and distract her attention elsewhere. Instead he replies, "I need help." 

Arya sits up straighter, crossing her legs in front of her and staring Jon down. "Let me help." Her voice is serious and stern and it makes Jon feel overwhelmed by her immediate concern. 

"I don't think you can," Jon sighs and Arya looks as if she doesn't believe a single piece of it. 

"Try me.” 

"I'm fucked. I'm really fucked." 

"Is something wrong with the company? Are you not enjoying it? Do you want to leave us?" 

"Calm down," Jon says with a gentle smile, touching Arya's hand. "I'm not leaving you." 

"Good. Because if you do I'll just have to come hunt you down." 

Jon doesn't even doubt that for a second. 

"Jon," she tries again, "tell me what's wrong." 

"I can't tell you. Not entirely."

Arya looks beyond frustrated. "Fine, what if I ask questions and you just give me a yes or no answer?" 

"Okay," Jon nods. He makes the assumption her questions can only be so awful.

"Is it about the company?"

"No." 

"Is it about spending Christmas with us?" 

“Of course not." 

"Is it about us in general, as a family?" 

He pauses. "Not really." 

"Is it about moving in with Robb?" 

Jon feels regret flood his insides, turning his stomach sour. "Sort of."

"That's not yes or no." 

"Fine. Yes." 

Arya looks confused and Jon can't blame her. "So, it's about Robb?" 

"Yes." 

She sits up straighter. "What did my brother do? Ill hurt him Jon, I will." 

"That's very touching, but it won't be necessary." 

"Alright. So, what did Robb do?" 

"I can't answer that with a yes or no." 

The girl groans. "You're so annoying. So, you don't want to move in with Robb?" 

"No, I do." 

"But you're angry at Robb?" 

"No." 

"But he's the reason you're… acting this way?" 

"Yes." 

She's quiet for a moment, her eyebrows wound tight together in thought as the flame from the fire dances across her face. There's a shout somewhere in the distance, the party growing and threatening to interrupt Arya's inquisition. It's getting dangerous now and Jon feels so close to slipping. 

"I'm going to ask you something," she says slowly and her face serious. "You have to answer honestly." 

Jon nods and finishes off his drink. His throat feels dry. 

"Jon, are you in love?" 

Jon's reply is small, a sound that can barely be heard over the flickering flames and drowned out music. He can't look at her eyes, so he chooses the ground instead. 

"Yes." 

Arya's silence is deafening and Jon can hear the blood rushing through his skull. "Arya," he says with a voice of sandpaper, "please, you must understand that I never -"  

The door being pushed open roughly startles them both, they jump in their seats and Jon's grip tightens on the empty glass in his hand. 

"Ahh there are my lovely siblings!" 

Robb crosses the room quickly, with a smile so big on his face that Jon sees the white of his teeth before anything else. Unable to help himself, Jon smiles back. He thinks maybe he’ll always smile back. Robb stands behind Jon and the couch, a drink in one hand and the other reaching out to tangle in Jon's hair.

 _Oh gods_ Jon thinks, _not now_. 

"Why are you two hiding here?" Robb asks, tugging on Jon's curls as if it doesn't matter. 

"Just talking," Jon says. 

Arya looks back and forth between the two of them, her doe eyes wide and sharp and emotionless. It hurts Jon to think he has lost her respect (and potentially a great deal more), but there is nothing now he can do to rectify what he has said. If he could pluck the words from the air and swallow them back down his throat, he would.

"Well, stop talking and come drink with me," Robb says. "I want you to meet some of our cousins and possibly introduce you to some lovely friends of mine. Lady friends." 

Arya stands up suddenly, glaring at Robb with a curled fist by her side. She almost kicks Jon in the process.

Robb simply laughs. "And what's your problem?" 

"You're a dickhead," she says, turning away from the two of them so she can storm out of the room. 

"Okay, what was all that about?" 

Jon tries his best to shrug. "I have no idea." 

"I'll have to talk to her later," he sighs. "Not to worry, the night is young! Come on Jon Snow, there's drinking to do." 

 

*******

 

Four hours later (perhaps five) and Jon is sitting by the river with Robb’s head in his lap. Jon is hovering between a buzz and intoxication, with countless shots of tequila coursing through his blood stream and affecting his head. Its cold, beyond cold, but the alcohol numbs Jon’s senses enough that he can sit on the snow stained grass without completely getting hypothermia. It helps, to feel numb where he otherwise feels hypertension. He can't get Arya out of his mind - can't help but wonder where the girl is now and what she must think of him. Losing Arya would be hard, but losing Robb would be impossible.

Robb, who lies in Jon's lap, halfway to drunk and letting his eyes drift close.

The river runs gently before them, providing the only source of sound as they sit in the darkness; any shred of light they have comes from flickering Christmas lights strung in the trees. Even the mood is hiding tonight. Robb drags slowly on a cigarette between his lips, a bad habit that he promised only happened when he had been drinking. The smoke blows around his lips and the amber flickers on his face and Jon can’t stop looking at him.

Robb had been true on his word about introducing Jon to his friends. Tall girls, short girls, pretty girls; girls with brown hair, girls with blonde hair and on and on it went until Jon had completely run out of things to say. Jon was polite, smiled at them kindly and shook their hands, but it was distracting to think about being with anyone when Robb never left his side. One couldn't blame him, not really. It angered him, almost, that Robb was so blind to what was so clearly in front of his face. Jon's resolve of secrecy was slipping and he couldn't find it in him to mend the cracks.

“Jon, I have a question,” Robb murmurs gently, the cigarette burning down between his fingers.

Jon had been following a line of freckles from Robb's temple down to his cheek. "Sure."

"I want to know about your mum. Can you tell me about her?" 

Jon goes completely still and Robb notices. He takes Jon's hand in his to tangle their fingers together and he squeezes, only gently. "Please." 

"I don't know what to say," Jon says, voice small. Or perhaps what Jon means is,   _I don't want to say anything._

"Anything. You never talk about her."

Jon sighs and Robb's hand squeezes tighter. "My mum was everything to me, for such a long time. I didn't grow up thinking I was lonely because she never would have allowed that. She was always there for me, always, from the day I was born until the day she died. When i was a kid we would go to the park every Sunday to feed the ducks and have a picnic, and we would sit on this big rug that she knitted herself and she would tell me stories of dragons and kings. I grew up being told all these different tales and stories and in one way it sort of ruined me for real life." Jon's laugh is weak and shallow. 

"I thought that things like fairy tales and happily ever afters existed, and that when I was old enough I would rescue damsels in distress and serve a worthy King. I mean, I figured things out pretty quickly, but it didn't mean that real life wasn't a let down. It still is.

She always told me that I could be whatever I wanted to be. I knew that no matter what I did, she would be proud of me. God, Robb, I miss her so much. I miss everything about her. I miss the way she laughed and her smile, I miss her chicken casserole and the way she said certain words and how she hated when I cut my hair. I swear I didn't get a haircut until I was about twelve because my mum _loved_ my hair. I used to get picked on so much at school because I was _pretty_." 

Robb smiles and Jon can't help but return it. "I used to ask her about my dad, sometimes. Sort of typical stuff, really, like why did my friends have a mum and a dad and I didn't. She always told me it was because she just loved me so much and she didn't to have to share with anyone. I stopped asking questions when I got older, because I don't think I really wanted to know. As far as I was concerned, my mum was all I needed and I didn't care who my father was." 

"Can you tell me about when she died?" Robb asks, his voice gentle. 

"It was five years ago, on the third of May, it was raining and it was a Tuesday. I remember being excited because she had promised she would bring my favourite takeout home when she finished work. I was in the middle of a pretty massive assignment so she was being extra nice to me. I got home, it was about five-thirty and she wasn't there and I know this sounds like a cliché but, I _knew_ something was wrong, you know?. She was an art teacher at one of the local high schools and she didn't have Tuesday afternoon classes. Afternoon wore into evening and I started to worry. I called her, texted her, even called the school she worked at and they told me she'd left hours ago. You know when you're meant to meet up with someone or you're expecting someone and they don't show? And your brain starts to think of all the worst possible solutions, but then they show up and it's like, why did I worry so much?" 

Jon is holding Robb's hand as an anchor at this point, with a story he's never told coming out of him uncontrollably. "You never think it's going to happen to you. All the terrible things in the world, you know they happen, but they don't happen to you. And then you're getting that call, that call that changes everything and you realise that everything you thought you knew was a lie. I can still hear that voice on the phone, in my head. _'You need to come straight away Mr Snow, it's your mother, she's been in a car accident.'_ She was hit by someone running a red light and she died on impact.

The last time I saw her alive was that Tuesday morning. It was raining and I was eating cereal and she told me not to stress about university too much and that she would bring home takeout. I told her she was the best mum in the world and she laughed and kissed my cheek and then left for work. That was the last time I ever saw her alive." 

Jon feels raw. He feels as if he's laid himself out to be burned and there's no coming back now. He's tired and he's empty and he's angry. Angry because it was never meant to be like this. Angry because he didn't want to tell this story to himself, let alone to Robb.

Robb sits up from where he lies, the cigarette burnt out and forgotten on the ground as he puts a cold hand to Jon's colder cheek. Jon can't bear to look Robb in the eyes but the other man doesn't give him a choice. "Jon," he says, "look at me." 

Jon does. 

"Please don't cry." 

"I'm not?" 

Robb's thumb brushes across his cheek bone and Jon feels the track of tears smearing there. "Oh," he murmurs, "sorry."

"Please, don't you dare be sorry." 

"I've never told anyone that story before, you know." 

Robb looks pained. "No one? Ever?" 

"No. I've spent the past five years of my life thinking if I don't say anything it means it never happened. I pushed everyone away, Robb. I stopped seeing my friends, I broke up with Ygritte... I just buried myself in my studies and didn't let anyone in. The only reason I'm still friends with Sam is because he wouldn't let me push him away." 

“Jon, you -" 

"This is why I didn't want any of this. I didn't want a family again because... I can't go through what I went through again. I can't, Robb."

"You can't push me away, Jon," Robb says, tightening his grip. "I'm not going anywhere. I won't lose you." 

Robb's eyes are serious and dark and Jon feels like he's drowning. "You act like this, us, isn't a choice."

"It's _not_ a choice, Jon. I wouldn't change anything about us, I -"

"What if I'm not meant to be in your life."

"I don't believe that for a second. We're meant to be here, together. Everything happens for a reason." 

"Don't you think that's fucked up though? We're here because your father,  _our_ father, died. He could have lived for another twenty, thirty years and we never would have been here. Can you honestly tell me that you'd choose being here with me than keeping your father alive?"

Robb sighs in frustration. "I miss my dad, Jon. I miss my dad every single fucking day and sometimes I feel like I want to burn my house down with me still inside it, if it'll help things become easier. I would never _choose_ for my dad to die, I'd have him live forever if I could, but don't you for one second think I don't want you here with me. Meeting you has been the best thing that has ever happened to me and I don't regret that." 

Something hot and angry flares through Jon, he can't tame it. "What do you want from me, Robb?"

The features on Robb's face flinch, like it was the last thing he was expecting Jon to say. Yet, his answer comes smoothly. "To have you in my life."

"You make things so hard," Jon barely whispers. "Sometimes, I don't know - it's like you see this _darkness_ in me. Like I'm going to destroy you."

"And what if you already have?"

Jon shakes his head, only slightly. "What does that even -"

"I'm angry because I'm confused."

Jon raises his eyebrow.

"I'm angry because you make me happy and I'm sorry but, I can't explain that to you, Jon. I can't." Robb's grip bruises the side of his neck. "Sometimes I can't treat you like I want to and that makes me angry."

There are so many questions that burn at the corners of Jon's mind. They dance there in flames, waiting to be picked and asked and to help Jon piece together whatever this _thing_ is but none of it comes. None of it.

"Robb, please," Jon breathes out, his heart jumping in his throat as if it will choke him. "Anything, you can tell me, anything, please I -"

Robb kisses him before he can finish. 

Jon freezes, for lack of knowing what else he can possibly attempt to do. Robb's lips are pressed against his own in a soft, still movement. Gentle. It's over quickly, before it even began and Robb is pulling back to search Jon's eyes with his own. Blue meets brown and it's a moment so heavy it crushes and buries them.

"Jon, I'm -" 

Jon is done with talking. He's done with thinking.

The only thing that makes sense is to do what would be described as attack. It's the only word that Jon can think is clear. He _attacks_ Robb. Jon grabs his face in his strong hands and crushes their lips together with a force that leaves one to bruise. It's as if neither of them can move fast enough, now that they've begun. Robb's hands clutch at Jon, anchoring himself and pulling Jon closer in any way he is allowed. Jon will allow him everything. It takes the entirety of Jon's discipline he has not to push Robb back into the frosty grass and climb into his lap. He wants to devour him, own him, claim him, take him. He's wanted this, he's wanted this so badly, from the moment Robb first smirked at him and those blue eyes danced with mirth in his direction. All Jon can think - if that's something he even has the capacity to do anymore - is to wonder why they haven't been doing this since the beginning. Because this, is everything.

When Robb moans against his tongue, Jon thinks he's going to lose control. "God, please," he practically pants into Robb's mouth, "I've wanted this for so long." 

Robb's teeth drag against his chin, his jaw, down to his neck to sink into soft skin. Jon can't see straight. 

"How long?" Robb grunts, his teeth surely leaving a mark. 

"I don't -" 

"How _long_?" 

Jon crumbles; he shatters. "That first night, when I was here." 

Robb groans, pulling on the lapels of Jon's coat to bring them both falling to the ground. He kisses him again and catches him all at once, his lips like a fire that burns through to Jon's core. "Since the beginning?" Robb murmurs in disbelief against his lips. "You never did _anything_." 

Jon is on top of Robb and its all he wants. "No," he says, "how could I?" 

Robb presses a soft, chaste kiss to Jon's jaw. He rushes between hard and fast and slow and gentle and Jon feels a step behind every second of it. "Stay with me. Stay with me tonight. Give me tonight."

Jon will never say no.

He presses Robb deeper into the frost bitten grass and kisses him like it's the only night they'll be allowed.

Maybe it is, but, Jon will never say no again.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I'm very sorry, this took me far longer to post than I would have liked. Work's been kicking my ass. Also, this is the first chapter in the series that was written completely fresh?? Originally it was sort of written like it was chapter five jumping straight to chapter seven but, this needed to happen. 
> 
> Uhh... turns out... Jon and Robb are kind of lowkey kinky????? If mild choking, bit of biting, little bit of gagging and some gentle slapping isn't your thing then... avert your eyes. 
> 
> :)

Jon had dreamt of having Robb like this; bare, warm and wanting beneath him. He’d been dreaming of it, consistently and constantly, almost every night when he went to bed and closed his eyes. But to have it, here and now and _real_ , felt like a dream Jon never wanted to wake up from. 

He takes his time touching Robb’s body. He lets the pads of his fingers run slowly and gently down the length of the other mans soft skin until he’s practically writhing from it. Jon thinks that perhaps he likes the skin of Robb’s inner thigh the most, loves watching the milk white flesh jump from sensitivity and eagerness. Jon could touch him like this forever. 

“You’re killing me,” Robb breathes, his breath hot and grazing against the line of Jon’s jaw. 

“Try not to die,” Jon murmurs in return, placing his lips to the shell of Rob’s ear. 

Robb’s fingers tangle themselves in the curls of Jon’s hair and without warning they pull, hard, and Jon is powerless to do anything other than groan. He can practically feel Robb’s smirk against his skin and he wants to wipe it right off his pretty face. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Robb whispers against him, laughter colouring his tone. “Did you say something?” 

Jon considers smacking him and it’s delightfully tempting, but instead he moves himself back; Robb’s fingers sliding effortlessly from their hold. He looks down on Robb, no more than a breath between them and Jon finds himself taking pause. Robb is so beautiful like this, too beautiful, he thinks. 

Robb laughs, the sound coming out more breathless than perhaps intended. “Come on, I thought you were going to fight me.” 

Jon could and part of him wants to. That part acts, in the small way it’s allowed. 

He reaches for Robb’s throat and his fingers curl, gently and tightly all at once. Robb isn’t alarmed, this much is clear, instead he arches his back beautifully and further into Jon’s touch. His eyes are daring, begging Jon to push harder, further, tighter. 

“Come on,” he whispers again, his fingers digging marks into the bare skin of Jon’s hips. “Take my breath away, Jon Snow.” 

Jon presses tighter and Robb’s moan reverberates through every nerve ending in his body. Jon can’t stop himself from kissing Robb, he thinks he may die if he doesn’t. When he removes his hand from his brothers throat the depth of air Robb takes is deep and quick, but Jon barely gives him the chance to breathe. 

He takes whatever breath Robb was tasting and replaces it with his mouth. He feels Robb sigh into him, happily and hungrily all at once and Jon can’t stop but push him deeper into the mattress. He tastes like tequila, lime and cigarettes and Jon’s tongue savours it, delving deep and hard. 

Robb kisses like he’s been starved of it, as if Jon is the last mouthful of water in a desert that’s slowly taking his life. Jon will rescue Robb in any way he can. Robb kisses like he’s wanted to be kissing Jon like this for years and maybe it’s not years but maybe he has, since the beginning. Jon will ask when the cloud clears to blue skies in his brain. 

When Robb shoves him to roll him over in the sheets and be over Jon’s body, their lips don’t break, Jon simply lets Robb’s hands guide him and lets himself be pushed and gripped like anything but fine china. Jon’s not going to break and Robb knows this. He takes advantage of it.

“I’m going to show you,” Robb murmurs, his tongue running over the bottom row of Jon’s teeth, “how grateful I am.” 

Jon would ask, _for what?_ but the answers are infinite and he doesn’t have the time. 

Robb takes his time pressing his lips to Jon’s bare skin as he slides down his body. His touch moves between gentle and biting, no discernible pattern between the two that Jon could keep up with him. It keeps him on edge and his spine jumps every time Robb’s teeth nip at his skin. Jon feels a hundred emotions course through his blood stream; lust, desire and heat fused with shame, confusion and lawlessness. 

Nerves too, perhaps. Jon has never touched - or been touched - by another man like this before. He never knew he wanted to be, until Robb. That, in itself, isn’t entirely a problem but the essence of it, isn’t the solution. 

Jon acknowledges, with every logical part of his brain, that what they’re doing is wrong but logic has been so torn apart by want it’s not a fair fight. Want powers him, drives him and consumes him. 

Robb’s lips hover over the line of his hip. “You’re so,” he muses, kissing skin gently, “ _pretty_.” 

Jon wants to tell him to _s_ _hut the fuck up_ , but that, and everything, is obliterated when Robb’s lips wrap around the head of his cock. 

“Oh god,” Jon almost shouts, at least he thinks he does because it could very possibly be only in his head. 

Robb tests him, teases him, using his tongue to draw out a sound in Jon he didn’t even thing he was capable of making. It falls somewhere between a moan and a yell. It’s frustrating to know that Robb is getting off on watching, _feeling_ , Jon squirm. He moves his mouth slowly, taking Jon deep and revels in the delight of anticipation and caution. At least Jon assumes he does. 

Bastard.

“I swear, if you don't - _shit._ " 

If Robb could laugh, he would. Instead the sound he makes around Jon’s cock translates into only vibrations and sensory overload. He claws one hand into Jon’s side and the other into the soft skin of his thigh and Jon’s so turned on it’s almost painful. His hands can’t do much more than bunch the sheets underneath him by his side, trying to anchor himself and keep his hips still to stop from bucking up and into Robb’s throat. Even if the tosser sort of does deserve it. 

Robb takes him down quicker and faster, his lips gliding effortlessly and perfectly until Jon can feel himself at the back of his brothers throat. _There’s no way he hasn’t done this before_ , Jon thinks, trying to not let that roll around in his mind. He’ll let himself enjoy it, more than anything else. 

“Fuck, oh god, fuck -“ Jon pants, his chest heaving. One leg bends at the knee by the side of Robb’s head, the other being gripped at the thigh and pushed down roughly by Robb’s fingers. The stretch is tight and wonderful. 

Jon wishes to sit up on his elbows so he can watch the movement of his brother’s head, perhaps tangle his fingers in the dark, unruly waves of his hair but; he doesn’t have the strength. If he sits up now he’ll simply fall again and the motion seems pointless. 

He allows himself the latter of his want, relinquishing his grip on the sheets and pulling roughly on Robb’s hair. Robb groans, makes no secret of it, but it does nothing to stop the perfect way his mouth applies pressure. Jon can’t help himself but use his grip on Robb’s hair to hold him down, just for a moment, the depth of it and the construction of Robb’s throat making his spine arch. 

“Shit - just there,” Jon moans and the other man’s nails dig painfully into his skin. 

He releases Robb a moment later, laughing when he coughs and practically gasps for air. 

“Such a prick,” he breathes, one hand slapping Jon lightly to the sensitive skin of his thigh and the other replacing where his mouth had just been. His hand moves quicker than his mouth, tighter too. 

Jon tries to stop his eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Sorry, darling,” he says gently, short of breath. “Couldn’t help myself.” 

Robb’s only response is to sink his teeth into the skin just left of Jon’s hip bone. 

Jon opens his mouth to call Robb a fucking wanker, or something of a very similar vain, but before the words can take shape Robb shoves his index and middle finger into Jon’s mouth. 

“Shut up,” he grins, “or I’ll hit you so hard you’ll be wearing the bruise of my palm for a week.” 

Jon would argue that he would perhaps, potentially, probably be okay with that but he sucks on Robb’s fingers instead. It’s tempting to bite down on them gently, make his brother jump, but he runs his tongue along them instead. He’s close now, he can feel it; can feel the way the familiar sensation of lightening pools in the depth of his stomach and the base of his spine. As if he can anticipate it (he probably can from the way Jon’s hips begin to jump and his thighs start to quiver), Robb runs his tongue up the line of Jon’s cock from base to tip. 

When his lips wrap around him once more, that’s all it takes. Jon closes his eyes so tight it causes stars to dance in the dark; that, in itself, is blinding. He moans loudly around Robb’s fingers, trying desperately not to shout. Maybe he does though, he can’t tell. 

All he thinks is _RobbRobbRobb_ , tumbling around in his mind like a prayer. He can _feel_ Robb swallow him, grunt around him and not stop until every last drop is on his tongue. When he drags his fingers from his mouth, Jon practically pants and every inch of his skin feels electric. 

“Look at me,” Robb says when his mouth has left Jon, his voice so low it can barely be heard. 

Jon does, conjuring whatever strength he has left, sitting up on his elbows like he’d always wanted and feeling the muscles of his arms quiver from the effort of it all. Robb smiles deliciously, as if he all needed was Jon’s eyes to send him over the edge. Robb has one hand on himself, moving quickly and without abandon.  

 _“Jon,”_ he manages, dropping his forehead to Jon’s thigh and moans against it. “Shit - Jon.” 

Watching Robb come is almost as pleasurable as his own orgasm was, knowing that all it took to unravel the man with sapphire eyes was to be looking at him. Jon doesn’t know if he’s ever had that power on someone before. 

When Robb’s shoulders stop shaking, Jon can’t help but grab him by his hair to pull him closer and up his body. “Come here,” he whispers, not able to wait another second to taste Robb on his tongue again. 

He kisses him like there is not choice to do anything but, capturing his face roughly and tightly between his hands almost desperately. There’s so much Jon feels, so much that reverberates down his spine and to his toes it feels like someone is crushing down on his chest. He wants this, he wants Robb. He can’t have only tonight, he simply can’t. 

Robb had asked for tonight and Jon wants to give him forever. 

Robb shifts, only slightly, just enough to whisper against Jon’s lips. “There’s so much I want to do to you, it’s almost ridiculous.” 

“Oh, is that so?” 

“Have you ever been fucked, Jon Snow?” 

Jon’s breath hitches against Robb’s skin. “No.” 

“Mm, interesting,” Robb murmurs, biting down on Jon’s bottom lip. “Would you trust me?” 

Jon moves back, just enough so that he can catch Robb’s eyes with his own. They’re so dark, almost shockingly so, the normal crystal turned navy. Jon’s so overwhelmed by it all he feels like he could choke.  

“Yes,” he says, without a second thought. “Always.”

 

*******

 

Hours later, when Robb has fallen asleep and is breathing gently on his chest, Jon spares a thought to the party. He wonders if people noticed their absence, if their siblings questioned their disappearance. Maybe not. The Stark’s had become so accustomed to Jon and Robb being JonandRobb they may not have spared a second thought. Arya would have, though, which Jon refuses to think of now. 

He realises, somewhere along his thought process, that it would be Christmas Day now. Jon can’t specifically remember when the clock struck twelve but he guesses it was somewhere after the first time he’d come and somewhere before the second. He runs the pads of his fingers along the length of Robb’s bare arm and resists the urge to wake him; he wants to whisper _Merry Christmas_ against his skin again and again. It would be a better Christmas present than he had ever received. But he resists the urge. It is, after all, roughly three in the morning. Jon can’t particularly place why he can’t sleep, but he estimates it’s the cocktail of nerves, excitement and anticipation that flows through his blood stream.

Nerves, for how all of this can possibly work;

Excitement, at the thought of it working;

Anticipation, for all the stolen moments in between.

Jon can’t deny that he’s one of the biggest fucking pessimists that he knows, so it’s not exactly a shock that he finds himself thinking the worst. Presuming the worst. Jon anticipates that worst case scenario resolves in him losing Robb. Probable and plausible. But it’s how, that particularly troubles him.

It will almost inevitably be his fault. It normally is.

Jon has pushed people away for far less and certainly none of those people had the same blood running through their veins. That, in itself, should be the problem but it’s shockingly not. Jon is, oddly, okay with it. Okay meaning he has decided to not completely throw himself off a bridge. He has accepted he wants Robb, accepted it in the same way he accepts Winter will always be in December and Summer in July (in the Northern Hemisphere, at least). Natural order. He’s accepted, and in turn is okay with the fact they’ve acted on it. He can’t imagine not having acted on it, now that they have.

Jon is almost overwhelmed with the desire to wake his brother up again and kiss him senseless. Robb would probably let him.

The fault will inevitably be his own because he knows, he will let others make his decisions for him.

He cares too much what others think and there is no way, absolutely no way, that people won’t think this is utterly and completely mad. Not that Jon really has any intention of spreading the goods news but, how long can it be secret? How much can he ask Robb to sacrifice for him?

Jon hardly thinks he’s worth the trouble but he’ll allow Robb to have his opinions on that. They are in this together, that much is true and Jon wants it to be something they face together, he truly does.

He’s so overwhelmed with it all he feels the urge to call Sam. It’s hardly a reasonable hour but maybe he can leave a voicemail, or text him, or email or fucking send a raven, he doesn’t care. He needs Sam’s advice and he’s the only person in the world Jon trusts, aside from Robb. He realises his phone is in the side pocket of his duffle bag, which he can picture still sitting by the foot of the stairs. Getting his phone means leaving the bed, which means leaving Robb but Jon rations it’s okay. He needs the privacy to call Sam anyway.

He presses his lips quickly and softly to the top of Robb’s head before gently untangling their limbs. Robb barely stirs, simply buries his face deep into the pillow and further under the duvet. Jon wants to watch him like this forever, which he grants is insane.

Despite the early hour of the morning, which Jon knows will mean the entire house is completely silent and still, he pulls on a pair of sweats that hang over the side of Robb’s dresser. He might be slowly losing his mind but it doesn’t mean he wants to run into Rickon completely naked whilst the young boy is making a trip to the loo. Or, something equally as traumatising for all parties involved.

The wooden floorboards are cold beneath his bare feet as he walks quickly down the hall. There’s something surprisingly eerie about being in the house in the dark, feeling so utterly dark and alone. Everything is too still, too quiet and it’s too disconcerting and late for Jon to place anything more on it than that. The staircase creaks with every step he takes and he tries his best not to wince.

“Bran, is that you? Rickon?”

Jon almost falls off the bottom step of the stairs and face first onto the floor. The soft voice floats through from the living room and Jon grips the bannister tight. Now that he looks, or, now that he’s paying attention, he can see the soft, dim light that floods through the slight crack of the door.

The worst part is, despite the rush of fear based adrenaline coursing through his veins, is that he doesn’t know that voice. That, in itself, provides every indicator to _who_ it is. There’s only one voice that has never spoken in front of him that Jon knows, only one voice that could possibly fit that description in the house.

Catelyn Stark.

“Boys?” She calls again and Jon feels like there is no choice. Either Catelyn will just come and catch him anyway or he’ll lead the older woman to think she’s going slightly insane.

Jon quickly opens his bag and pulls out the first t-shirt on top, throwing it over his head and not even bothering to check if it’s the right way round. God bless the decision of putting on trousers but it would potentially not be appropriate to meet Catelyn for the first time completely shirtless.

He barely pauses to take a breath before he crosses the space between him and the door. It’s going to happen now and that isn’t going to change.

“Oh, I thought I heard someone, I -"

Catelyn Stark stops and everything stills, as if time has had it's hands stopped.

The woman sits on the couch, the one favorited by him and Arya, tucked up around a dark, forest green dressing gown and an old, paperback book that’s fraying at the edges in her lap. Her long, auburn hair is tied neatly in a braid that falls down across her shoulder and Jon would stop and take a moment to appreciate that she is really rather beautiful but that motion feels somewhat complicated with the way she all but glares at him. The line of her mouth is so tight her lips have all but disappeared.

For lack of anything better to do, Jon speaks. “Hello, Mrs Stark. I’m sorry if I frightened you, I just need to get something from my bag.”

She stares and the light from the fire dances across her face. 

“I’m sorry to bother you, I’ll just leave you, I –“

“No,” she says suddenly, the single syllable word cutting through him like a blade.

He stands, rooted to his place by the door and can’t find it in himself to back down from the challenge she presents. The crystal blue of her eyes _(the same colour as Robb’s, oh god)_ , pierces him motionless.

“You can sit,” she continues, nodding her head to the single armchair that sits to her right. Never one to disobey a command, Jon does. He resists the urge to tuck his feet up underneath him like a child.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she says, and Jon’s not sure if it’s a question or a statement. “Do you like to read, Jon?”

An odd question, Jon can’t say he’s not caught off guard by it. “Yes,” he tries, “most certainly.”

“Do you have a favourite book?”

“That’s a big question,” he concedes. “I think maybe the best book I’ve read recently is one by Sara Stridsberg."

_"Faculty of Dreams?"_

"Yeah."

She nods, as if contemplating it. “Yes, I have read that.”

“What are you reading?” He asks, gesturing the book in her lap.

“Oh, this old thing, it’s just Diana Gabaldon. Bit of a guilty pleasure, really. I would have read it about four times by now.” 

Jon can’t help but smile, a small quirk of his lips. “I have to admit, I’ve spent far too many hours watching the series. Many weekends wasted.” 

“With my son, I imagine?” 

Jon stills and Catelyn doesn’t even blink. 

“That’s what you do, isn’t it?” She continues. “Robb spends almost all his waking time with you, so I imagine some of it has to be spent pouring over mindless television.” 

Jon opens his mouth once, twice, shuts it again and racks his brain for how to possibly respond. 

“Do you think me cruel, Jon?” 

He doesn’t had a chance to respond, even if he wanted to. 

“I imagine you do. It’s been - oh, well, what would it be now? Three months? Four? Since you tumbled your way into our lives and I have not uttered one word to you. I imagine you think me cruel because I have made no attempt to know you.” 

“I imagine you’ve had your reasons,” Jon says. It’s so quiet the almost mutters it. 

“Yes, I’ve had my reasons,” she says cooly. “Did you enjoy the party this evening?” 

Jon almost flinches from the sudden change. Catelyn’s face barely moves. 

“Yes it was really great, thanks.” 

“I saw you and Robb sneak off and never come back so yes, I imagine you had a great time.” 

Logically, Jon _knows_ she is not insinuating anything. Nothing. Nothing that matters, anyway. Logically, he knows that there is absolutely no way she could _know_ what happened and he’s sure if she did he would have been kicked out by now but, despite this, despite everything, he panics. 

Her stare is so harsh it’s almost blinding. 

“When Robb was little he wanted a brother so badly. He was obsessed. Has he told you that?” 

Jon nods, thinking of the first night he got to know Robb. “Sort of.” 

“He cried for about a week when we told him Sansa was a girl. Absolutely threw a tantrum. Kept saying that it wasn’t _fair_ and that he hated us. Then Arya came along and I thought he was going to explode.” She smiles. Barely. “Poor Bran and Rickon. He loves them, but they’re a little young. But you? You’re everything he’s ever wanted.” 

Jon turns to look at the fire and Catelyn barely takes a breath. 

“I can’t even begin to imagine what it would have been like, the two of you growing up together. A nightmare, I imagine.” She pauses, only slightly, as if she’s caught up in a memory of something that never happened. “Robb was a handful as it is, and keep in mind it was just him we had to worry about for four years. He was a very impulsive child. He rarely thought before he acted on something and would then become frustrated when it didn't pan out his way. We taught him to be kind and to be thankful and not take things in life for granted, and I don't think he ever did but - he doesn't stop to _think,_ even if that means hurting someone else in the process. Robb is so driven by his heart it's quite admirable. In some respects, anyway. He chooses heart over logic and it burns him, Jon."

Jon doesn't know what he's meant to say. Or, if he's meant to say anything at all. When he looks at Catelyn's face he can see the lines etched around the hard set of her mouth, as if she's biting back words that threaten to come spilling out.

"Did you know he was married?" She asks.

Jon doesn't falter. "Yes."

Catelyn shakes her head, but not at Jon. It reminds him of the way his own mother would shake her head when she was incredibly disappointed or incredibly angry or an incredible mixture of the two. It's strange, to think of his mum and compare her to a woman who could not be further than.

"I liked Talisa," she says, almost too harshly. "I liked her, but he was stupid. He didn't _think_. He ran and jumped and fell into something that was wrong for him and all it brought was hurt."

"Isn't that his lesson to learn, though?" Jon asks and regrets it when he does, but he doesn't learn. "I just mean, isn't it life to make mistakes, pick yourself up from the fall and learn from it all? I think that's what Robb did. Yes, he's passionate and he's impulsive but he's a _good_  person and not a slow one. He knows he made a mistake and he understands -"

Catelyn silences him with a laugh. Sharp and dry. "You presume to know my son better than me, Jon Snow?"

Jon blanches. "No. Never. I just meant -"

"I know what you meant. Do you think it better to abandon logic for love?"

"I think it best to do what is right."

The long, slender fingers of Catelyn's hand curls around the spine of her book as if to throw it. But she merely clutches it, hoping the pages will tear.

"Gods, you even sound like him."

Confusion colours Jon's features. "Robb?"

"Ned."

Jon doesn't want to be having this conversation, he simply doesn't. He wants to be back in bed, with Robb beneath his fingers and away from this. From Catelyn.

"Mrs Stark," he tries, "I'm _sorry,_ I'm sorry, I -"

"I've tried to tell myself, so many times, so many nights, ' _it's not his fault.'_ Because it's not, is it? It's not your fault, how could it be? You were a baby brought into this world who grew up without a father, a father you never knew until he was dead and it's not your _fault_. I tell myself that I should love you like my children do; welcome you into our home with open arms and _love_ you because you're another piece of Ned and it's what's right but - you walk in here, talking like him, looking like him, acting like him and all it serves is the harsh, stark reminder that he _betrayed_ me. I look at you Jon Snow and all I see is betrayal. I look at you and - I - I see someone who is going to destroy my family."

Jon doesn't blink.

"I've never seen Robb be so infatuated by anyone, or anything, as he is you. Do you know that?"

Jon doesn't move.

"The way he speaks of you, frightens me. He's found something in you that he's searched for his whole life and at first I worried it was to cope with the loss of his father, to replace Ned, but it's not. He's found an equal. And it frightens me because I know what it means."

Jon doesn't think.

"You will hurt him, Jon. You will destroy him. He'll abandon all logic for you and I cannot have that."

Jon doesn't breathe.

"Leave. Leave my house and don't come back. Do you understand me?"

She is met with silence. Utter and total silence.

"Do you _understand me_ , Jon?"

His response is barely audible, barely conscious.

_"Yes."_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I am genuinely sorry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Me again. 
> 
> I know I’m posting a little less frequently than I first was, but I’m trying to keep it to roughly a week! 
> 
> I’m quite overwhelmed (in a good way) with all the love I’ve been receiving. Every time I read a comment/get a kudos I die a little. To get such positive feedback on something that’s just a little hobby is honestly, so touching. 
> 
> So thank you and um... sorry about the onslaught of depression.

Robb wasn’t a lonely child. Not really. 

He grew up loved and surrounded, with every atom in his atmosphere bright and held in the hands of someone who cared for him. He had love. Robb had so much love it smothered him, at times. When he was young, only small, he’d find himself running away; he’d run faster than his little legs could sometimes catch him. He didn’t understand what it meant to grow up in such a prominent family for such a long time; couldn’t quite comprehend why there were so many expectations placed upon his gentle shoulders. 

Robb ran away because he wanted to be alone. But he wanted to be alone, with someone. 

Robb was surrounded by so much _love_ but he felt so singular. He’d always felt like half a piece of a whole, as if there was another part of him that was _missing_ and he couldn’t quite understand it. 

He wanted someone there with him by his side, always and constant. Someone to be there for moments so trivial like playing mindless computer games and kicking the football in the back field until the sun went down, clinging on to the last pieces of summer light. Someone for moments that held more weight, like a hand to hold when he jumped into the river after a storm and held his breath under water until his lungs screamed. Someone who knew his deepest fears and his darkest secrets and shared their own in return and told him it was _okay_. 

Maybe what Robb has been searching for his whole life is for someone to tell him it’s okay. It’s all going to be fine. 

When he was six his parents had sat him down, with his dad's hand resting gently on his mums belly as they told him, "you're going to have a little brother or sister." 

Robb's eyes had gone wide, jumping up and down on the couch in excitement as a world of possibilities began flashing before his eyes. A brother, that's what Robb wanted, a brother. He wanted to be like those boys who wore scrapes on their knees and grins in their cheeks, continuously prattling on about the adventures they'd been on with their brothers. Robb wanted that, craved that. 

Then Sansa was born. 

Robb loves Sansa, with every piece of love his heart has to give, but, she was nothing like Robb expected her to be. Robb's parents had explained to him that it would be quite awhile until she was ready to play with him, so Robb patiently waited and watched her take up almost all of his parent’s time and affection. Robb got older, lonelier, and waited for the day she would climb trees with him and pretend to be knights that were guarding their castle. 

That day never came. 

Sansa grew up to love dolls and baking and begged their mother to teach her how to knit and crochet. Which there was nothing wrong with, of course, but he would beg her to sword fight in the backyard with him and she would scoff (before she was even old enough to know what scoffing was). Robb’s love for Sansa soon become one of fierce protection, deciding that if he couldn’t make her his best friend then he would be the epitome of the overbearing big brother. She hated him for it, still does, but the bond they shared was deep and thick.

Robb’s disappointment when he discovered his next sibling to be was another girl was almost unimaginable and far too melodramatic. However, Arya turned out to be everything that Robb once wanted. She was wild and reckless and beyond impulsive. She caused their mother her fair share of near heart attacks, with all her scrapes and cuts and more than one broken bone. Robb taught her how to do many things; swim, run, ride a bike, fall down and get back up again. He taught her how to catch fish and play football, to fight with swords and to shoot toy arrows. Most of all, he taught her how to fight. “You can stand up for yourself,” he used to say whilst folding her hands into fists. “Show them all who’s boss.”

Catelyn was entirely less than thrilled when the school would call to tell her Arya had gotten in trouble for fighting, again.

Despite all this, Robb never got close to her. He loved her, to the moon and stars, but it was a protective love like Sansa’s. When it came to the essence of their relationship, Robb would always be the big older brother. He could never crawl under Arya’s covers at night and tell her his deepest secrets.

That’s how Robb’s love came for all his siblings, in the end. Strong and burning and incredibly overprotective.

He loved them, each and every one of them, but none of them were his. All his, someone to call his own.

Because essentially, that was the problem. What had always been the problem. Robb had never met anyone he felt could replace the half of him that had always been lost. 

Then he met Jon. 

The death of his father tore a hole open in Robb that he wasn’t sure could ever be repaired. It was a warm day in Spring, Robb remembers this most because of the flowers blooming around the arch of his family’s front door. His father had sat him down, not bothering for pleasantries and gave a speech about life and love and the inevitability of all things. He spoke about how all things in life happen for a reason and that we must not shed tears over the parts of life we cannot control.

“Robb,” he had said, “Robb you must be strong, for soon, I will not be.”

The words that followed had rushed through Robb’s skull like a storm. Destroying every nerve and feeling in its path. It was strong and violent and Robb felt as if everything he had ever love was torn away from him.

“I’m dying, Robb. I need you.”

Robb had gotten angry. Furious, in fact. He had shouted and he had cried, punching his fist so hard into the wall that the skin on his knuckles cracked and stained red. Ned had let him react this way, had waited until Robb calmed so he could take that red stained hand and hold it in his own. It had surely been tough on Ned to see his eldest son cry with broken breath, until sobs wracked through his body to the point of pain. But surely it had been tough on Robb more so.

“How long?” Robb had demanded, as if knowing the time left of his father’s life could help him be the one to stop it.

“The doctors can’t be sure,” Ned said solemnly. “The cancer has begun to spread, and I might not have much time.”

Before Robb began to cry once more, Ned had said, “There is something I must tell you.”

So the tale begun. The tale of Ned’s betrayal and shame. Robb had listened with a face as clear as ice, absorbing the words slowly and one by one. Robb processed the news placed in front of him with a great deal of resistance. He refused to believe it, at first, that his father had left his mother, only to wind up with another woman falling pregnant.

“His name is Jon,” Ned said slowly, voice deep and grave. “He lives in Leeds.” 

“Okay,” Robb had replied, “why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want him to run the company with you, when I pass away.”

Robb looked back on the last few months of his life and felt his heart twist in a way that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. The death of his father was a grief that he didn’t know he was capable of bearing; he thought that surely the day he put his father beneath the earth would be the day, he too, would crumble. He felt empty, for what felt like such a long time. Robb thought he had known pain when Talisa left. When the divorce papers appeared on his desk and he signed an agreement that was proof of love lost. It felt absurd now, really, that something like a broken heart could compare to that of loss, the loss of the most important person in his life. Robb didn’t need to reflect on what he’d lost or how it important it was once it was gone, because he knew what he had. 

He had his father.

Robb remembers the first time he laid his eyes on Jon Snow. Honestly, it was all rather anti climactic. He’d seen the man’s face a hundred times, when he’d poured over his father’s files and secrets. He’d seen Jon as a boy, as a man, and everything in between. He became intimately familiar with it when he’d put a lighter to the corner of a picture that was of Jon as a boy, all curls and smiles and red cheeks and the arms of a beautiful woman wrapped around him tightly. Her smile was like the sun. Robb had watched as the flames curled up around their faces, turning them to ash before the flicker caught his fingers and he threw the ashes to the floor.

Robb hated him. It was the only emotion that kept him going for so long. Whilst watching his father fade away, watching the flames curl up around his face and turn him to ash, Robb let his hate wrap around his heart and clutch tight. Robb admits it was a disgusting waste of time. So many minutes he could have spent by his father’s side, loving him and making peace, but instead he spent them angry and bitter. Angry at Ned, angry at his disease, angry at death and angry at a man he didn’t know. He couldn’t accept Jon into his life; he simply couldn’t, no matter what his father’s wishes were.

Then he met Jon. 

Jon Snow was the sort of person that made you feel like an awful one when all he was doing was simply existing. It sometimes (or, often; all the time) frustrated Robb with how _nice_ Jon was. Although perhaps it wasn’t so much niceness as it was quietness and as a result, unable to say anything cruel. Or, no want to say anything cruel. 

Not that Robb was cruel, and nor was Jon perfect but he chose to keep his mouth shut in moments of heightened emotion when Robb would choose to react. 

He was _good_ , to his core and Robb truly believed there wasn’t a bone of malice in his entire body. Which was beautiful, really. He was quiet and stoic and brooding and blunt but - he was _good_ and he was just and he was honest and he was kind. 

Jon might have been quiet and brooding but to Robb, he was one of the funniest people he’d ever met. Jon made him laugh and Jon made him happy; which, more than anything, spread a heat through Robb that felt like inching his body bit by bit, a small slither of skin touching the water with every dip, into a warm bath. He missed Jon when he wasn’t around, craved his attention every second when he was and felt his brother on his mind even when he had no reason to be there. 

That feeling wasn’t instant, nor was it sudden or expected. It certainly wasn’t expected. For someone he had hated, utterly and wholly, it was shocking to find himself almost slapped in the face with his own ignorance. If Robb falls down the hole of self hatred it will swallow him whole with the thought of his hate and contempt for Jon, when he didn’t even know him. 

In the months that followed from his fathers death, Robb felt so at war with what was right and what was normal. He spent so much of the first night they spent together, when Jon first came to the house, torn between wanting to punch him and feeling drawn to an unspeakable, undefinable force between them. That’s what hurt Robb the most, the closer he got to Jon; his own inability to decide what he wanted or how he felt. He felt so strongly for Jon so quickly that it was, frankly, terrifying. 

Sometimes he’d touch Jon too much, hold him too long, stare at him too intensely and catch himself before it was too late. Robb regrets how that would have made Jon feel, his instant and harsh mood swings. The problem was, Robb didn’t even know how he felt. 

He knew he felt a connection with Jon that he had never felt with anyone, not even Talisa. That in itself was excruciating. 

For so long, Robb put it down to a ‘brother thing’. Jon had been someone Robb always wanted; someone his age to share life with and have a laugh over a pint and the football. That’s what it was meant to be, just a mate. So why did Robb feel like he couldn’t live without Jon anymore?

So many months thinking he were to hate a boy he had perhaps inevitably loved from the beginning. That love changed, was shaped and moulded into beautiful and blinding colours that were brushed across Robb’s skin. He loved Jon, that much he knew, what he didn’t know, or didn’t think he knew, was how he loved Jon. 

Until now. 

 

*******

 

It’s the cold that wakes Robb first. Which is odd, really. His brain refuses to wake fully yet, it merely keeps him in a state that hovers on the edge of alert and leans towards the edge of darkness. He can’t register why he feels cold, he’s far too tired, but he wills his arms to move to pull the covers up higher over his bare chest.

It happens slowly, like water dripping from a tap, that memories from the night before start to paint themselves back into Robb’s mind. He remembers the cold, the tequila, the cigarette burning into his lungs as Jon’s fingers locked with his own. He remembers holding Jon’s face in his hands as he kissed him, how they fell back into the grass and Jon’s lips fluttered across every inch of Robb’s face as if he couldn’t help himself. He remembers grabbing Jon by his shirt, dragging him up from the ground and trying not to stumble into him in the process. Jon had laughed, that deep, rich, intoxicating laugh and looked at Robb as if he was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. 

It was still unclear to Robb, how Jon could possibly look at him that way; how he didn’t even realise how badly he had wanted Jon to look at him that way until he was.

Robb remembers pulling Jon by his waist, unable to stop himself from kissing him over and over until Jon was tugging on his hands to pull him into the house. Robb doesn’t even remember how they ended up in his bed, with Jon beneath him and ripping the buttons of his shirt but - he remembers Jon’s face, he remembers that most of all. They had moved together in a rhythm that was frantic and steady and slow and rushed and everything all at once until Jon’s eyes were scrunched shut and his lips were parted as a breath slipped through them. 

He remembers taking the time to kiss Jon, everywhere and anywhere, his lips finding all the spaces from the bone of Jon’s left ankle to the space between his eyebrows. 

Robb should have been more concerned or perhaps more worried but all he felt was content. He felt as if everything made sense now; he could finally see clearly. He hadn’t realised how in the dark he’d been these last few months, stumbling around blindly through a storm of emotions and feelings he never took the time to understand. He understood, now. He understood what it meant to hold Jon’s face in his hands and touch him in a way so intimate and close. He understood how it felt to be kissed by Jon, to have his name on Jon’s lips and Jon’s on his in return. His name rolls around in all the corners and cracks of Robb’s name. Jon. _Jon_. It’s so tangible Robb can taste it. 

Robb reaches out for him, wanting to feel, to touch, to hold - but his fingers reach into nothing but empty sheets. They don’t even feel warm. 

He opens his eyes, slowly and gently to the full Christmas morning light, the blinds only half closed and a barely risen sun playing in the sky. He reaches out once more, as if his eyes were playing tricks, that perhaps this is still a dream. 

But maybe it all was, because surely last night must have been a dream. Because surely, Jon could not have touched him like that, looked at him like that, just to leave. 

 

*******

 

"Come on, break a cracker with me." 

"No."

"Do you want some pudding?" 

"No."

"How about we go for a -" 

"Sam, no."

Sam frowns, as if his face had forgotten how to do anything else and doesn't stop until he sighs so loud his shoulders heave. "Jon," he says, "you have to tell me what's going on." 

"Sam -" 

"Because I want to help you, and I can't help you if I don't know what's happened, because -" 

"Sam," Jon groans, kicking his feet up off the floor to bring them to his chest, curling in on himself and sinking further into Sam's couch. "Don't do this." 

"Fine," Sam huffs, standing up from the couch with his cup of tea to leave Jon wallowing alone by the fire. "When you're ready to talk, I'll be waiting."

Jon feels guilty, he does, but he can't help himself from feeling unbearably grim and maybe he's allowed to be selfish. He knows that barging in on Sam and his family to suck the life and joy out of the whole bloody holiday can't be nice nor can it be entirely welcome. He'd shown up on Sam's front doorstep just before nine a.m., in sweats that weren't his and an Oxford University jumper that smelled like Robb. Or maybe Jon smelled like Robb, he couldn't be sure. 

"What the bloody hell happened to you?!" Sam had fussed, still wearing his pyjamas and dragging Jon into the house out of the cold. 

"Can I, um, stay for Christmas?" Jon had asked, his voice scratchy. 

And that's how he found himself, nearly twelve hours later and unable to take the damn jumper off. Twelve hours later and ruining Christmas for the entire Tarly family.

Mostly no one asked questions, just accepted Jon's presence at Christmas dinner as the norm and piled mountains of potatoes on his plate; not that Jon had the heart to eat anything of much at all.

"I can't believe you're running a company now!" Sam's mum had fussed. 

"Oh Jon you simply _must_ tell me all about London," Sam's sister had sighed. 

"That new family of yours sounds like a right sort if you ask me," Sam's father had grunted. 

Jon didn't really say anything, just nodded, and smiled and couldn't find the strength, or the desire, to speak.

Jon had intended to go home, driving blindly North before the sun had even risen and got the entire way to his front door before he remembered the front door didn't below to him anymore. 

He'd sat outside his old house, the house he once owned, trying to comprehend the people who lived there now. The people who climbed his stairs, who lit his fireplace and showered in his shower. Jon wondered if they noticed the dent in the wall on the landing, or the red wine stain on the carpet near the window. He wondered what they were like, if they were nice or cruel or not much of anything at all. Jon hoped they were happy than he ever was.

He missed it, Jon missed it so much he felt like he was falling apart. 

It was then he to drove to Sam's, unsure where to go. He couldn't go back, not yet. Jon wasn't sure where home was anymore.

"Hi Jon, may I join you?" 

Jon's eyes break away from the flames of the too warm fireplace to look up at Gilly, not even given a chance to respond before the girl in the red Christmas jumper is sitting down opposite him on the long sofa. 

She doesn't say anything for a minute, letting the silence grow until it hovers on the point of uncomfortable. Jon watches the side of her face, with the way the lights from the Christmas tree in the corner colour her cheek in flashing shades of the rainbow. She's beautiful, really. 

"Jon, sometimes it's okay to want something you think you can't have." 

Jon stares and watches her cheek light up with the colour red. 

"I read somewhere once, I don't remember where, but it said, 'We accept the love we think we deserve.' Do you think that's true?" 

Jon says nothing and she continues. 

"I think it is. I think we're so conditioned to think we're worthless that we don't give ourselves a chance of happiness."

When she's ignored once more, she snaps. "Don't ignore me, Jon. You have a lot of people who care about you, and we're trying to help." 

Jon feels as if he's been slapped. "Sorry Gilly," he mumbles. "Really, I am." 

She sighs, in a way that's fond and frustrated. "I know we've never been close, Jon, but you're Sam's best friend and you're very important to him and I would like for us to be friends."

"We are friends, Gilly." 

Her smile is soft but small. "So, friends help friends, and I want to help you with your broken heart." 

Jon has enough humour in him left to laugh, a dry and hollow sound. "I don't have a broken heart," which is the truth, honestly. 

"Really? Because you're moping around here worse than when you broke up with Ygritte." 

Jon's eyebrows scrunch. "What?" 

"You heard me. I don't think I've ever seen you this distraught. Well, not since... You know." 

And yes, Jon knows. 

"Sorry," she says quickly. "But it's true. I know you've been in love recently." 

"You've been talking to Sam." 

"No. Well, yes, we talk all the time, but not about that. He's never mentioned anything about you meeting someone." 

Jon's laugh is empty again. "Well that's nice of him. How can you just 'know' then?" 

"It's obvious. Sam talks about how happy you've been, you're never happy Jon, no offence." 

"None taken," Jon says dryly. "So what's your conclusion then? You've obviously thought about this a lot." 

"Not really," she shrugs. "It's just obvious to me. It's obvious you've found someone who makes you happy, but now you're dark and brooding because something has happened and you feel like it's all your fault. You want to be happy, but that would mean being selfish and you always want to put others before you. How am I going, am I close?" 

Jon keeps his eyes on the flames and feels her staring holes into him. "Yes," he says at first. "I don't know," he says second. "It's a lot more complicated than you think." 

"Is it though? Because from where I'm sitting, you've found someone who makes you happy and I can't see why you wouldn't want to be that way all the time." 

"Gilly -" 

"Don't do this to yourself, Jon. Be happy, for once in your life, be happy. Why don't you think you deserve it? Because I'm sure you're loved in return from this person, and you might be breaking their heart by doing this. And -" 

"Just stop," Jon says, voice cutting through the air. "Just stop it, you don't know what you're talking about." He sighs and adds, "just leave me alone, please." 

She doesn't respond for a moment, just stares at Jon as if he'll burst into flames if she stares hard enough. "Fine," she says suddenly, standing up to tower over Jon despite how small she really is. "You're an asshole, by the way." 

"Thanks, I was aware of that." 

"Good." She starts to walk off but stops as she reaches the door, turning back to say, "but I mean it. You deserve to be happy, don't accept anything less than what you deserve," before she's leaving the room. 

The lights from the Christmas tree continue to flash, the fire cracks and pops and Jon thinks of all the people over the world who must be spending this moment so joyfully on Christmas Day. He thinks of the Starks and what they must be doing right now. Jon hadn't the heart to turn his phone on all day, but he is sure if he were to touch it he would feel the weight burn his palm. He'd have missed calls and messages, surely; most of them probably from Arya. He hopes she's happy, that they all are, that they've had a nice day as a _family._ He hopes that Catelyn is happy, with Robb by her side, safe and untouched from Jon.

Despite what he may wish and hope, Jon knows Robb won't be happy. Jon knows he will have hurt Robb and that alone is enough to make Jon truly believe this is the worst Christmas he's ever had.

But whether Jon likes it or not, or no matter how much of a coward he chooses to be, he will face this. He has to face this.  

He'll face it all, everything and more, tomorrow.  

Today, he'll let it consume him.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm backkkk and I'm so sorry please forgive me. 
> 
> Please enjoy the next instalment below and if anyone would like to express their feelings about this, the new Thrones ep's or just life, please hit me up.

Jon chooses to leave Sam’s house two days later. He was so conscious of everything he owned either being in London or at the Stark Estate he felt hollow and bare. He had no clothes, no money and a phone that hadn’t been turned on since Christmas Eve. He didn’t want to leave Sam and he certainly didn’t want to be alone but he felt the choice was out of his hands.

Sam had hugged Jon as if he were going off to war, which had made Jon laugh, even if he didn’t much feel like it. He had told Sam not to worry, that everything was okay and that he wished - more than anything - that he could explain. He’d wanted to, so many times; guilt was weighing him down and leaving him crippled. Jon could trust Sam, that wasn’t in dispute, but Jon couldn’t entirely trust himself.

Jon had chosen to drive back to his old house in London, the original house, that he hadn’t formally moved out from. Ever since he’d agreed to live with Robb he’d been slowly moving his belongings and letting his life twine with Robb’s further and deeper in the form of a t-shirt, a book, a toothbrush. Almost one by one, he’d been bleeding into Robb’s space and now the home he found himself back to was empty and raw.

When he’d first returned back to the city he dared a trip to Robb’s that afternoon. The chances of his brother being there were incredibly slim, but it didn’t stop him from having to still his hand from shaking as it unlocked the front door, stepping into the quiet, still hallway and calling,  _‘Hello?’;_ all he heard was his heart thump in his chest above the silence. He’d grabbed what he could, not wanting to spare a second longer than necessary in a place he shouldn’t have been so nervous in – but – it didn’t, couldn’t, stop him from pausing at the door to Robb’s bedroom. Before he’d known what was right and what he wanted, his fingers had curled around the handle and taken pause; he didn’t dare enter. The impulse almost dragged him in, wanting to curl himself up in the sheets on the bed and suffocate there. He wanted to feel close to Robb, in a way that was intimate and tangible, breathe him in until his lungs threatened to burst.

But he didn’t allow himself.

Jon allowed himself to go to Chelsea, to the house that wasn’t a home and hid. Like a coward.

 

*******

 

Logically, Jon knows he is dreaming. Logically, he knows he doesn’t stand in the middle of a dark room - a grand room - like a hall of a castle with light glowing from candelabra’s lined down long, oak tables. Logically, he knows Robb isn’t in front of him. But Jon reaches out all the same. Despite the foolishness and despite the complete non-reality to the whole situation, Jon reaches out to touch. The light flickers across Robb’s skin and causes him to dance in shadows, Jon wants to join him there. He feels close, close enough to touch, to speak, when he’s ripped from it suddenly.

His eyes open in a flutter, his eyelashes fanning once, twice, against his skin. He feels like he’s been hit in the face and he frowns; a pillow lies mere inches from his head and its then he notices the angry face of Arya Stark standing at the foot of his bed.

“Did you throw a pillow at me?" Jon says, unsure of what else to say as he sits up slowly.

"You're wearing Robb's clothes," she says in return. 

Jon could try and deny it, or think of a reason that was plausible, but it’s the same sweatshirt he took when he left on Christmas, the one that has Robb’s university emblazoned over the front and Arya isn’t stupid.

"You and Robb are disgusting," she says flatly and Jon feels his heart die somewhere in his chest. It felt barely there to begin with.

Jon thought he was prepared, he was, but in this moment, with Arya staring him down - lips thin and eyebrows tight - Jon realises he could have never have been prepared. Not even close.  

"Arya, please," he tries to say, "It’s not what you think. Please. I can explain. I understand if you want to judge me, I would too and you’re right, it is disgusting, but –“

"Hold up, hold up," she cuts in, jumping up onto the bed to cross her legs and sit opposite Jon. It happens so fast the mattress barely dips. "You think that's why I'm angry? You think I’m judging the choices you’ve made?” 

"Well, yes?"

"You're a moron," she says angrily, grabbing the pillow that had lay momentarily forgotten by his side and shoves it into his chest. Jon barely flinches.  "You're disgusting because of how stupidly in love you are with each other! And you're too blind to realise it." 

Jon blinks. Once. “Arya –"

"You're an absolute asshole for leaving before Christmas, you know that right?" 

"I didn't -" 

"Let's forget for a second how disappointed  _I_ was, and Bran and Sansa and Rickon, to find out on bright and jolly Christmas morning that you'd _left_ us, but no - Robb. Do you have any idea how painful it has been to see Robb these past few days? He walks around the house as if the life has been sucked out of him, all whilst not being able to take off _your_  clothes. And here I find you, the life sucked from you as well, wearing _his_  clothes. It's absolutely bloody appalling." 

"Arya, it’s not –"

"And another thing! Why -" 

"Can you let me speak?" Jon almost shouts, tightening his fingers on the pillow still in his lap. Arya stays silent and Jon huffs in frustration. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone, okay? Not you or anyone or especially Robb. I don't want to hurt Robb." 

"Then why are you?" 

"It's not that easy, Arya." 

"Tell me." 

"It's complicated." 

"Well then _explain_  it to me." 

Arya Stark is quite possibly the most infuriating girl to ever exist. 

"What do you want me to say? Do you want the truth? Do you want me to tell you how I think he’s the most amazing, most wonderful, _best_  person I think I’ve ever met? Do you want me to tell you that your brother, _our_  brother, is constantly on my mind, that he’s all I think about and if I close my eyes now I’ll see him? Or maybe what it all comes down to, this whole _thing_ , is built on the fact that I love him. I love him Arya, okay? And I don’t know what to do.”

Jon feels his shoulders drop, it’s as if the energy has been drawn out of him and left him lifeless. He’s met with this instant force of regret, as if he just spoke words so horrible and so unforgivable that he’d turn back time just to stop them from being said. He watches Arya’s face and he can see her opinions and thoughts flicker behind her eyes. He wishes there was something to say, but he’s damaged this enough.

The last thing Jon expects Arya to do is reach out to hold his hand. "Jon," she says softly, far too gently, "it's okay." 

Jon has lost any decency, so he laughs. "You're joking, right?" 

"I'm not," she says sternly. "I don't know why you're both putting yourself through so much pain." 

"Okay, here's a scenario for you Arya, what would you do if you were in love with Sansa? Or Bran or Rickon for that matter?" 

Arya's face visibly scrunches and Jon knows his point has been made, albeit a cruel, distasteful one.

"This is different," she says slowly. 

Jon shakes his head. “It’s not.”

"No. It _is_. Up until a few months ago, you didn't even know we existed. You could have bumped into Robb on the street and fallen in love with him just like you would anyone else. You share blood, you do, there's no denying that, but you don't have a bond built on family and brotherhood." 

"You talk as if you're so sure that any of this is okay." 

“But I am,” she smiles gently. “I wanted to understand it more, the minute I knew, because I didn’t want prejudice or preconceived notions of normality to cloud my vision and I really thought about it, yeah?

Jon raises an eyebrow and Arya grips his hand tighter; she’s the only thing keeping him grounded.  

"Stay with me okay? So, people always say that we choose partners who subconsciously remind us of our parents or family members, right? Because our family is often a lot like us and we love our family so it sort of imprints on partners we choose. But we don't actually end up with our family members because we grow up imprinting on them platonically not romantically. So sometimes when siblings, or whatever, first meet as adults, they don't have that chemical part in their brain that sees them as family, and some people literally can't help themselves but fall in love. I feel like- I don’t know – it’s like you must feel powerless to it and find it impossible to change how you feel. I think –no, I know - this is what has happened to you and Robb, yeah? You both know it's wrong, your morals aren’t in question, but something triggered in both of your brains when you met and neither of your could control it. You fell helplessly for each other because you couldn't control it." 

Jon's shaking his head before he realises he's even doing it, trying to wrap any of that around his brain. It’s almost driving him mental with how _calm_ Arya is. "No. That can't be a thing. How come I'm not attracted to you or Bran or something?" 

"Oh come on Jon, are you that stupid?" 

Jon's starting to think that maybe yes, he is. 

"You and Robb are the same person!" She cries angrily. "Don't you see that? You're practically twins. You're the same age, you’re both tall, dark and handsome, you're both smart and strong and you think the same, talk the same, act the same way. If you and Robb had of grown up together, you would have been absolutely inseparable. You would be each other's best friend before you could even walk. You're catching up on a lifetimes worth of brotherhood lost and the way you both coped with it was to, well, fall in love." 

"But, that makes no _se_ _nse_." 

Arya rolls her eyes. "It makes perfect sense. You've essentially just each fallen in love with yourselves." 

Despite it all, Jon huffs a laugh. One of pure defeat. "So, let me get this straight," he says slowly, "because Robb and I never got a chance to grow up together, where we would have automatically been the best of friends, we have now met as adults where the chemicals in our brain don't understand we're brothers and are overwhelmed by our automatic bond?" 

"Pretty much, yeah," Arya shrugs. 

"Arya," Jon almost groans, moving away from her hold and dropping his head into his hands, feeling a sob threaten to rip its way through his chest. "I can't do this, I can't. It's not right. I'm sorry and besides, it’s not just that it’s -" he stops. Words of Catelyn threaten to spill over the edge from where they’d been kept so tightly.

"Oh screw what's right, Jon," she snaps, "you two love each other, I figured that out Christmas Eve and honestly I'm an idiot for not seeing it sooner. What's happened to you guys, it's... its chemical. No one can stop it. I think you have something powerful and you can't throw that away."

"What do you expect me to do?" Jon pleads. "The whole of London knows we're related, we're running a major company together - there is no way we could ever make it work and I'm not prepared to ask Robb to keep the rest of his life a secret. He deserves to be so happy, with someone who he can be proud of and have a family he can be proud of." _That's not going to be with me,_  Jon almost adds but doesn't, instead choosing to swallow the thoughts to the back of his throat where they get stuck. 

Arya's face looks like it's plagued with confusion and pain and Jon hates being the cause of it. "I want to help," she says as if it's a question. "What can I do?"

Jon shakes his head. "Nothing. Don't do anything, please."

"But Jon -"

"No. We're not going to speak about this anymore."

Arya's eyebrows knot and she huffs out a breath. "Yes we will."

Jon would argue but he know she's right. "Have you -” he starts to say slowly, finding the right words to say, "Have you spoken to Robb about this?"

Arya shakes her head softly, only slightly, and Jon isn't sure if he's relived or crushed. "No," she says, "I've tried to talk to him, but I don't think he really wants to talk ‘feelings’ with his little sister."

"Lucky him," Jon says drily and Arya punches him in the arm. 

"You're lucky you have me. I wasn't going to let you wallow alone."

"I was happy wallowing alone." 

"Sure you were," she scoffs, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and grabbing Jon's wrist as she does so. "Come home with me." 

"No," Jon says without thinking. 

"Please. I think it will be good for you. Mum's decided to spend the holidays in Spain, Sansa’s back here in London with Marge, Bran and Rickon are out all the time anyway, it's basically just me and Robb and it's depressing as hell." 

Jon stiffens at the thought of Catelyn, not sure if he’s relieved to know she’s not in the country anymore. "So you want me to join you and make it even more depressing?" 

"Well, actually, to tell you the truth I'm worried it will go the other direction and I'll have to hear you two fucking." 

Jon tries to clear his throat but the motion dies. "I don't - I don't think -" 

"Oh stop blushing, Jon. I'm trying to play matchmaker. It's what friends do." 

“You realise it’s completely and utterly not _normal_  to play matchmaker for your two brothers, right? You really shouldn’t be condoning this.”

She rolls her eyes. “Obviously, I mean, it would be ideal if you hadn’t fallen in love with my brother but then – you’re my brother too and I can’t play favourites. And – also – you should be happy! Robb’s a fucking catch. So are you, for that matter, so if you could just perk the fuck up a bit.”

For the first time in days, Jon laughs. Properly and honestly laughs and Arya takes the opportunity to pull Jon by the wrist until he is up and standing out of bed.

"You can't make me go,” Jon says, laughter playing gently on his lips.

"Yes I can. I can make you do anything if I put my mind to it." 

"You're an evil little girl, did you know that?" 

"Obviously. Now take a shower, get dressed, meet me downstairs and don't even think about not coming with me because I won't leave you alone otherwise." 

She makes her point by throwing a pair of jeans at him, aiming straight for his face and completely not guilty about the prospect of him losing an eye in the process.  

Jon’s going to yell at her but another thought occupies him instead. “How did you get into my house?”

Arya grins, pulling a set of keys out of her back pocket and twirling them round her finger. "I stole the spare keys, duh. This is technically our house. Oh, and, you’ll totally need to drive us because I took the train and, just so you’re aware, Robb is like, super angry you stole his car to run away.”

Jon had almost forgot about that. “Great.”

 

*******

 

Arya tried her best to cheer Jon up on their drive to the country, forcing him to get out of his head and keep him engaged in what she believed was stimulating conversation. Mostly it was just her talking about plans for New Years, which Jon hadn’t even realised was in two days’ time. “We’ll do something,” she said, “you and me. We’ll go into London and watch the fireworks, then I know a friend of mine is having a party at their house in Soho. It’ll be great, yeah? You and me.” 

“Sure, sounds great,” he’d said, forever being touched by her kindness. He didn’t deserve Arya Stark. 

When they pull up to the front of the large, imposing house, Jon can't help but feel even more anxious than he did the first time he came to this home. He feels the nerves rattle inside his chest, making his ribs ache and fingers curl into fists. 

"He’ll probably be in the gym. It’s in the basement," Arya says next to him, jumping out of the car before Jon can tell her to politely fuck off. She runs into the house, not even looking back at Jon or staying to provide even one last piece of advice. Half of Jon respects her for leaving him space, the other curses her internally. 

The house is dusted in light smatterings of snow, the lights from Christmas are not yet taken down and the birds above sing songs too joyful for how Jon feels. Inside, the place is warm, soft, the smell of cinnamon drifting through the hallways and making Jon's ribs ache harder. 

Jon’s never been to the basement before but it’s not hard to find Robb. He hears him before he sees him. Each step down the hall and down the stone steps is like torture, one that Jon seems to be willingly putting himself through. The unmistakable sound of fists roughly colliding with a punching bag reverberates through the small space, bouncing off the walls and coursing through Jon’s blood stream.  

Jon doesn't want to be afraid, doesn't want to run again, but the possibility of Robb hitting him instead of the bag is most likely high. 

Robb doesn’t see him when he takes his foot off the last step on the stair case and onto the floor. The room is small and cramped and Jon’s hand stills on the banister. There’s a treadmill, odd sets of free weights and a yoga mat and all of it is covered in an ugly, fluorescent light. All of it except Robb. 

His back faces Jon, the punching bag in the corner and next to the only small, high window in the room. The soft light spills over Robb’s back and paints the bare skin in shadow; each muscle flexes and strains with each punch to the bag. Anything that Jon may have been thinking, or wanting to think, has all but vanished as he stands frozen in place. All he can focus on is the sweat on Robb’s skin; it disappears from the dimples of his lower back to the band of his shorts. 

Jon watches, mapping out the lines in Robb’s back like they’re a map he needs to learn by heart. He’s been so awful, he knows it, and he can’t find the words that he needs to make it okay. 

"Fuck," Robb grunts, pulling his hand back from the bag as if it's burnt him, cradling his left hand in the right and cursing under his breath. 

"I hope you're not breaking your bones, Stark," Jon says without thinking. It comes out cattier than he would have perhaps intended. 

Robb's whips around so fast it's like a blur, his face going through a whole spectrum of emotions that Jon can't catch quickly enough. Surprise, shock, regret, sadness and a hint of something else. All that is forgotten once Robb's face settles on just one burning emotion. 

Anger. 

Jon can see him fully now, every line and every curve and Jon has never wanted to kiss anyone more than he does right in this moment. He catches sight of Robb's hands, his knuckles bare, cracked and stained red. 

"Robb," he says, taking one step forward but stopping when Robb takes one back, "your hands." 

Robb says nothing. 

"Jesus, have you been punching without gloves?" 

Robb says nothing. 

"Let me look at it for you." 

Robb says nothing, simply picks up the towel thrown across the chair next to him and runs it across his face, down his neck, chest and between his hips.

Jon steps forward again, reaching out to take Robb's hand but stops when Robb flinches and says, "don't.” His voice cracks. 

"Robb," Jon says, pained, "let me help you." 

Jon reaches out to take Robb's hand, ignoring the way he tenses and lets his thumb brush over the cracked knuckles until he smears blood. Robb's hands are pale, weak and scattered in purple bruises. "Do you do this every day?" Jon asks, taking Robb's towel from him to press lightly at the wounds to remove as much blood as he can. 

"It's only been a few days," Robb says quietly, trying not to flinch. “It’s a good way to work out." 

"There's better ways to work out, Robb," Jon replies, almost scolding. 

Robb snatches his hand back, blue eyes stormed with grey. "What are you doing here, Jon?" 

"To talk to you. To see you. I had to - I wanted to - shit.” 

“You stole my car,” Robb says bluntly.

“I did, yes.”

“And my keys.”

“Both of which are here now.”

“Great, that makes me feel a lot better.” Robb’s voice is dripping in sarcasm.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“Really? Because I don’t know what else you were expecting.”

Jon tries to breathe through his nose, a poor attempt to calm himself. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fucking spectacular, Jon.”

It shouldn’t, but Jon can’t stop his skin from raising at hearing his name from Robb’s mouth. “I’ve been a dick,” he tries. “I know.”

“I don’t care, Jon. So don’t bother.”

“You clearly do.”

Robb rolls his eyes, as if he can’t help himself. “And why do you think that? Because here I was, under the impression we had a relationship built on trust and respect, only to find that respect thrown out the window when you _left_ me.”  

“It _is_ a relationship of respect, Robb. No matter what – what we’ve done, I have so much respect for you.”

“Sort of hard to see that, you know? Because, forgive me if I’m wrong, but you don’t _do_ what we did and then bail. I’m not a fucking one night stand you can ghost, Snow.”

“Of course you’re not – it’s not –"

“Did you come back just to clear the air? Not wanting things to be awkward at work, is that it?”

“Of _course_  not –"

“Because I think we crossed the line making things awkward a long time ago.”

“Robb –"

“I shouldn’t have been the way I was with you – I shouldn’t have been so –"

“We were close, since the beginning. I don’t think we could have changed that.”

Robb looks so _fru_ _strated_ , like he’s going to hit Jon if he keeps talking. “Yes, well, I probably could have stopped myself from sucking your dick, but, you know.”

“Robb,” Jon sighs, irritated, “I’m trying not to argue with you.”

“And I’m trying not to hit you.”

“Well, then we are at an impasse.”

Both men stare at each other, caught in a gaze that’s far too malicious for what Jon truly wants. Mostly, Jon wishes Robb would put on a damn shirt. He wishes he were allowed to touch, still.

Robb breaks first, sighing in a way that’s far too over the top and the anger washing off his face with each passing second. "Please. Don't make this any worse."

Jon doesn't understand. "Robb, I -" 

"If you say sorry, if you tell me you made a horrible mistake, that you're hurting, that you wish you could undo what you've done - just - just don’t.” 

Jon acts without thinking, stepping into Robb's space to clutch at his wrist and hold him there. His eyes flicker across Robb's face, seeing the defeat, the sadness, the will to fight diminished and put out like a flame. "It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, his grip on Robb tightening. “Please, let me explain.” 

Jon can feel it happening slowly, the impulse to let words tumble out of his mouth without control. He can't stop himself. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ran. I’m sorry that I had to ruin this and I’m sorry that I couldn’t love you in the way I was meant to. Maybe I’ve ruined this, or maybe there is no _this_ , I don’t know. I feel so fucking awful and I just got scared because - fuck.” 

“Why,” Robb breathes. Jon can see the sweat on his temple. “Why did you run?” 

 _Don’t make me say it,_  Jon thinks. He should blame Catelyn, he could, but he _can’t_. It’s not his place to ruin the relationship Robb has with his mother and yet maybe it wasn’t Cat’s place to ruin his relationship with Robb either. 

Jon shouldn’t be so fucking noble. 

“You must admit,” he says, “this is fucking crazy.” 

Robb’s lips twitch. “Yes. That’s one way to put it, I suppose.” 

“I’m scared because - I know this isn’t right Robb, I know that. It’s not normal.” 

“What’s happened to us isn’t exactly normal.” 

“No. You’re right. And I meant it, what I said about being sorry, but I’m not sorry for knowing you. I like being your brother, I _love_  being your brother, I love this family and everything that’s happened, no matter how morbid they came about. The thought that I could have ruined that, is what’s killing me most. I’m okay with just being friends, if that’s what we need to make this work.” 

Perhaps that’s not entirely true, but Jon isn’t really going to question himself, especially not with Robb’s fingers curling around the front of his sweater. 

He looks positively furious. 

“You’re so fucking stupid, you know that, right?” 

Jon’s too stunned to laugh. “Yes. People keep telling me.”

“Then why won’t you listen, you fool.” 

Jon feels the pulse under his fingers flutter. Robb is so close he can make out the freckles on his nose; he wants to kiss every one. 

“What do you want, Robb?” 

“What do  _you_  want, Snow?” 

They both grip tighter; Jon’s sweater so crumpled and Robb’s skin ready to bruise. 

“I want you, Stark.” 

Robb’s lips are so _red_. “You were an absolute dick.” He says quietly, barely whispering. 

Jon’s so close he rests his forehead to Robb’s. “I know. I was hurting too.” 

“Well, that gives me some modicum of comfort I suppose.” 

Jon laughs and Robb smiles. 

“Are we -“ Jon tries. He stills. “Are we okay?” 

Maybe that’s not the right question, Jon thinks. He’s sure, absolutely positive, that things are not _okay_  and regardless of pretending that they are there’s so much still wrong. But. Maybe.

Robb’s breath hits his lips as he moves back, putting space between them. 

He looks at Jon, properly and truly. His fingers loosen around Jon’s sweater until his grip becomes soft, almost gentle. 

“Yes,” he says finally. 

Jon feels as if his chest is crushed with relief. 

“But,” Robb continues, “I don’t entirely forgive you.” 

Jon tries not to grimace. “That’s fair.” 

“And I think - I think we need to figure this out. Because I can’t have you running away from me every time I kiss you.” 

Jon can’t help but cup Robb’s jaw, the skin warm and tense. Robb leans into the touch ever so slightly. 

“Robb," Jon says, not intending the sound to be a breath away from a moan. "Robb," he tries again, "what would you do if I kissed you?”

"Well that depends," Robb almost whispers, moving in so close his lips brush Jon's jaw. "Will you run off on me again?" 

"No," Jon says without thinking. 

Robb grins, lifting a hand to Jon's face in return until they hold each other gently. He brushes his finger tips down Jon's cheek, so slow and so barely there it makes Jon shiver. His breath is like fire against the skin, with just the scent of him making Jon dizzy and in need of an anchor. The air is thick, heavy, and Jon can't help but let his eyes fall shut and hold his breath.

It all comes rushing out when Robb kisses him. 

Jon sighs against his lips and Robb turns his grip so tight it will surely bruise. Jon doesn’t care. Robb can destroy him at this point and that would be okay. 

Robb’s kiss is angry and rough and Jon holds on as much as his strength allows. There’s no finesse to it, no tenderness and Jon’s teeth catch on Robb’s lips as he gets shoved into wall behind them and it’s so stupidly wonderful. 

Jon hates that he let himself try and ruin this. He finds it hard to comprehend that he was offered this and let himself back down and run. Of course, the issue of Catelyn Stark plagues the back of his mind like a virus and of course Jon would be a fool to ignore everything that’s so undeniably _wrong_  with all of this but - he can’t help himself anymore. 

He won’t allow this to stop anymore. 

Jon wants Robb, in any way he is allowed and he’ll spend forever proving it if he has to. 

“Will you -" Robb tries, breathless and distracted. “Will you - fuck, Jon, I can’t speak.” 

Jon smirks and bites down on Robb’s jaw. 

“Bastard,” he sighs, holding on to Jon’s neck. “Will you stay with me? Stay here? Don’t leave.” 

Jon stills, his lips turning tender. He presses them barely to Robb’s skin, tracing a line up to his lips to let them rest there, for just a moment. 

“Okay,” he says. 

Both his hands now hold Robb’s face, cradling him as if he were to shatter at any moment. “Okay,” he says again, kissing the spot just above his brothers eyebrow, his temple, his nose, the corner of his lips. 

Robb’s smiling against him and Jon has never wanted so badly to tell someone that he is hopelessly, ridiculously and irrefutably in love with them. 

“I never could have thought you to be so affectionate,” Robb laughs, chasing Jon’s lips with his own. 

Jon opens his mouth to respond but Robb doesn’t given him the chance. “I like it, by the way. It’s endearing, quite charming, positively lovely, absolutely -"

“Shut up,” Jon groans, rolling his eyes and letting Robb’s laughter sink into his skin. 

 

 


End file.
